Of Persia
by EverspringNative
Summary: Sold by the gypsies, bought by the Sultana, young Erik Kire finds himself a prisoner and slave to the Sultan's daughter. Will his arrogance and inteeligence save him or bring further suffering?
1. Chapter 1

A/N This is another Kire story. I've been writing him for over 7 years and he always vies for my attention. I'm hoping to finish this and the Giver of Life stories and may go back and clean up A Heart that Waits. Thanks!

Of Persia

Before I ever stepped foot in the desert, there were rumors of my existence—or so I was told. Perhaps it was meant as flattery or means to cajole me into employment, though honestly I had no choice in the matter. Labeled a criminal, I was sold, a man not yet twenty years of age. There was no greater insult than having one's life summed up with an amount of money offered for my head, even if it was a considerable amount of gold.

The One without a Soul, they called me. Even with my hands bound, the guards sent to watch over me kept a careful distance. It took merely a glare on my part and they straightened or backed away, afraid the Devil's Child would unleash unholy fury.

Aside from chains, I was hardly a prisoner at their mercy. They moved with caution in my presence and I gave them reason to fear. With sleight of hand I stole their keys and unlocked my iron handcuffs. Several times I left my cell door wide open merely to watch the mayhem as they ran about frantically. It amused me, and I realized, as we neared the palace in an ocean of sand, that my prison cell would soon by polished stone floors and airy, mosaic rooms scented with jasmine and exotic desert flowers. The salty ocean air melded with sand and the romance of the hot, untamed desert.

I was to become quite useful, I was told.

"Move," the guard said as he nudged me forward with his club.

I obeyed merely because I wanted off the ship. The movements had not agreed with me, the days of rocking back and forth in darkness coupled with the horrid smell more than enough to make my stomach turn.

Bright sunlight and fresh air greeted me at last. Inhaling deeply, I slipped my hands from the iron cuffs and dangled them in front of his stunned face.

"How did you?" he started to ask, though his words trailed off as I stormed past him.

"You cannot contain the devil," I said over my shoulder.

Two very large, dark-skinned men with long, black hair tied back stood on the dock. Their expressions didn't change as I moved toward them, though they stood straighter, sentinels barring my path toward the unknown desert. Behind them, barely visible, stood a woman with her arms crossed over her chest. She wore a veil and long dress that covered every inch of her flesh. Not even her eyes showed.

I paused as I approached and looked them over.

"You bought me?" I said plainly. It was an absurd notion for an individual to buy another's life. Money had been exchanged, though I doubted they knew no cage or binds would hold me, at least not for long.

The woman and her two ogres for bodyguards said nothing. I stared where I expected her eyes would be, my confidence fading as the seconds ticked past. Despite being shielded, I could almost swear she stared into me, through the mask and into whatever passed off as my heart.

"Did you purchase me?" I asked, my patience waning.

She nodded once. "I did," she said, her voice lower than I had an anticipated.

"Do I suit you?" I asked.

She stood perfectly still, though the breeze rustled her long skirt and billowing sleeves. "That has yet to be seen." She lifted her right hand and motioned with a flick of her wrists and at once the men at her side grabbed hold of my arms. The backs of my knees were kicked and I was driven to the ground to submission before her.

Intimidation, I knew, and the suddenness of her actions made me smile. She would challenge me and I was in need of same game to keep me entertained.

Quite suddenly my humor ended as she stepped forward and ripped the mask from my face. She stood over me, bent at the waist, her veiled visage inches from my exposed flesh. Her gloved hand settled on my ruined cheek and I froze, my gaze shamefully averted.

I had expected pain, but not quite like what she offered.

"Torture," she said as she forced my chin up and ran her gloved fingers across the cavern of my sunken cheek. Her silk clad finger made me hold my breath, the sensation of a hand against my skin foreign and alarming. She grunted when I attempted to pull away. "Is that it?"

"No." I hadn't meant to answer, to utter a word, yet I had spoken.

"Then what?"

"Birth," I said.

She chuckled quietly. "That will do, then."

I didn't know what she meant and I had a sneaking suspicion I didn't want to know. Lifted to my feet, I was forced to step forward and follow my purchaser.

"The wire," she said casually. "To allow him some time to think."

I made no reply. The sun set at my back and I hoped darkness was still my friend. With each step closer to the palace I knew I needed to get the hell out of Persia.

oooOooo

My cell was a lavish, deceptive holding place, one with many garish, unnecessary conveniences. I was dragged by my captors and quickly stripped of my clothing by the men who delivered me into the palace. The Sultana, however, abandoned me at the entrance, though I later suspected she watched them force me from my clothes and grunt as they pointed at my new garb.

Every move turned mechanical, precise and calculated as I stood exposed and examined what I had been given to wear. The men stood and watched me, their gazes fixed on my every move as I searched my new wardrobe.

I inhaled perfumed air and searched the dressers, finding shirts in the two upper drawers and trousers in the bottom one. Everything was neatly folded, though I noticed there were no undergarments, which I found strange.

"It's insignificant," one of them said, his voice a whisper that resonated through the room and garnered my attention.

Immediately I froze and turned to fully face them, my anger stoked. The veiled woman who had met me on the dock had kept my mask for herself and I craved its safe return. Somehow I knew it would have made me feel less exposed before them.

"Is it?" I said through my teeth, making no attempt to hide an inch of my flesh from them.

The man chuckled. "I meant the injuries to your face," he said flatly. "The rest of you is of no concern to me or anyone else."

I lifted my chin and smiled thinly at them, studying both men for the first time. They mirrored one another in stature, both thick as trees, with shiny black hair and dark, small eyes. They held my gaze, and I realized something peculiar: neither appeared repulsed by my exposed face. Rather than comforted, I found their acceptance—or indifference—peculiar, almost alarming.

"Holy water," I lied. "Splashed upon me at birth."

The twin on the right threw back his head and laughed. "Our god is different than yours."

I inhaled and pulled a soft, cream-colored shirt over my head. "I have no god," I mumbled.

"Here," he said with a grin, "you will only need the blessing of the Sultan."

I stepped into loose-fitting trousers and tied the drawstring. "And his wife?" I questioned.

The twins exchanged looks. "Daughter," they clarified in unison as they both stepped toward me.

"I am Arden," the one on the left said. "And this is Kamil."

"They call me son of the devil," I replied.

Neither of them smiled.

"Erik," Arden said. "You won't need that name any longer."

I wasn't sure which name he meant; the one I had been given or the one I had earned.

He reached for my left arm and his brother for my right. Once again they wrenched my hands behind my back and I was driven to my knees. I grit my teeth as I hit the marble floor, but I managed to keep silent.

"You will not like this," Kamil said.

Almost immediately, a dozen pin pricks stabbed at my wrists and I inhaled sharply. I faintly heard a metallic click and heard keys jingle.

"What in the hell is that?"

"The wire," he answered.

Even without seeing it, I guessed what bound my wrists together. Spikes dug into my flesh the moment I attempted to move and I immediately ceased my struggles.

"These binds are not easily escaped," Kamil said. "The more you struggle, the more it will tear apart your flesh. Only the most desperate will escape."

Arden grunted. "Though most likely without hands."

For the first time in many years, I was sufficiently trapped.

-0-

That was how they left me; on my knees with my hands bound behind my back and needles piercing my flesh. Once I heard the door closed, I shifted and managed to stand, but not without applying enough pressure to pierce my wrists. I felt warm, sticky blood drip down into my palms and exhaled, frustrated with the situation. I would not sit idle; I wanted answers as to why the Sultan had purchased me.

I stormed toward the door and turned, fitting my fingers around the handle and attempted to pull it down, but my attempt was in vain and the heavy iron refused to budge. Anger flared and I turned, intending to kick it until I realized my feet were dirty and bare and the only attire at my disposal were leather sandals. Unwilling to risk a broken foot, I stood and weighed my options.

Like a caged beast, my chest heaved and once again in my desperation and ignorance and I wrenched my arms behind my back and inhaled sharply at the sensation. Pain stilled me and I grit my teeth, wondering how long the discomfort would last if I tore my hands through the binds. I had no doubt I could free myself, but wasn't sure the expense of shredding my hands was worth it.

From the corner of my eye I noticed my reflection in a long, oval mirror and turned to the side, which gave me a glimpse of myself. The back of my shirt was stained with my own blood, which I had fully expected. I stalked toward my image, my gaze flitting between my own damaged face and my long strides.

For a long moment I stared, eyes unblinking. It was the first time I had ever seen myself, my whole self, and what stared back at me was almost too much to bear.

I had almost been finished, I thought. In every sense of the word I was a man, save for one half of my face. I turned my head to the side and peered at my reflection once the deformity was all but gone from the man staring back at me. A smile eased onto my face as I looked at the person before me from the corner of my eye. I had a vivid imagination, one hinting at wholeness—but one also filled with unfaltering cruelty. I snapped my head back and stared straight into my own light eyes and my smile faded, my visage hardened. Ah, there he was, that beast that could never truly hide. There was no escaping the devil inside.

Like a damned fool I once again began to separate my hands, stalled only by the intense pain that made me ball my hands into fists. I once again turned my body to the side and found barbed wire linking my hands together. Brow furrowed, I squeezed my fingers together and attempted to narrow my hand as I slipped it through the binding. Needles dragged along my flesh, tearing at my skin. I gritted my teeth, but I knew I could escape.

Before I could free myself, the apartment door opened and behind my image stood the veiled woman. She had her hands clasped behind her back as she sauntered in and regarded me a moment. Feeling her gaze on me, I turned instinctively in an attempt to hide my exposed face.

"Only the most desperate animal will bite off its own limb when caught in a vice," she said as she stepped closer. "Are you a desperate animal?"

I made no reply as I watched her near me, wondering what it was she held behind her back, wondering what she hid behind her veil. In the back of my mind I knew the Sultan had not paid gold merely to kill me, though judging by the means to contain me, I weighed the possibility of torture.

"You should have sense enough to answer when I speak," she said. "And bow before me."

She stood at arm's length and my gaze dropped in unbidden submission. Without seeing her face, without knowing who she was or what she wanted, she instilled fear within me. Despite my trepidation, I was curious of her—and envious. People shrieked when they saw my face and were indifferent when I went unnoticed. I would have rather had her power.

Without warning, she brandished a thin saber and pointed it at my throat. "Kneel," she demanded.

I stared at her a moment, waiting for her to prick my skin, but she didn't move and I did as I was told, more out of curiosity than obedience. Once I knelt before her, she jabbed me in the throat with the tip of the sword just enough to draw blood.

"My submission is not enough?" I questioned boldly.

"Ah, but you did not submit to me, did you?" The blade had yet to leave my throat.

"No, I did not."

"You are not yet broken," she said. "How is this possible?"

"No one has tried hard enough," I said.

She bent and examined me with her eyes hidden behind her veil. "You challenge me?"

With metal against my neck, I made no attempt to nod or shake my head. "I challenge everything," I said plainly.

She grunted. "You will be my most favorite toy," she mused. "Unlike anything I have had the pleasure of owning before.

She stalked around behind me and I turned my head to the side, but not before she kicked me in the middle of the back and forced me to the ground. She knelt onto my spine, the weight of her drawing a sharp inhale of breath. The pain against my wrists subsided and she tossed the binds before me, then rose to her feet.

In one hand she held her saber, in the other my mask, which she held out to me. I reached for it, and the edge of her blade rested on my outstretched hand. Giving pause, I waited for her to lob off my fingers.

"Whatever I give you can be removed at any moment, with or without warrant. You are mine to do as I please. In one breath I may hold you in high regard, in the next I may wish to kill you."

I nodded, my eyes fixed on the blade.

"Have you been castrated yet?" she asked.

I hesitated and considered her question. "I have not." _Yet._

She stood straighter, and I had suspicion she already knew the answer. I had a feeling she knew more of me than I could comprehend.

"Why have you been allowed your manhood?"

Shame took hold and I couldn't bring myself to look at her. "It would not be easily taken," I said, though my voice quivered as I spoke.

There was no hiding my fear of her question, and the sound of cold laughter made the fine hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end.

"You are quite bold," she said.

Boldness, for once, apparently saved me.

I snatched my mask from her grasp and turned away, peering at her from the mirror. "What is your name?" I asked.

"There are many names for a goddess," she commented smoothly. "What name would you give me?"

"Sultana," I said.

She lowered her blade. "Very well, my toy."

With that she left the apartment I was allowed and locked the door. Left alone, I inhaled sharply, unsure of whether I had somehow succeeded or miserably failed.


	2. Routine

Persia2

For three days I was left unattended in an exotic cage with limited stimulation at my disposal. The books were written in a language I couldn't understand and had no desire to learn. My garden view proved uninteresting as there were only manicured gardens and reflecting pools, yet none who tended the grounds.

If this was to be my torture, I found it irritatingly boring.

Yet, for all of my frustration, it was still strangely calm, and as the hours stretched to days, I sat on my modest balcony and drew upon giant scrolls of paper, the rolled edges secured by rocks I found inside the planters.

Food was delivered to me beneath the door, and for a day and a half I refused, which was quite remarkable considering each meal was exquisitely presented, despite my lowly station. At first I suspected poison, though at last one of the twins pounded on the door at meal time and quite forcibly told me I had not earned enough respect to be wanted dead.

Thirst and hunger consumed me and I indulged myself alone on the balcony, my legs outstretched, my bare feet resting on the empty wooden chair at the small iron table with its multicolored tile top. Birds sang in the trees and brush and out of boredom I imitated them until one dared to perch itself on the stone balcony wall and eye me curiously.

Despite overall impatience with the world in general, if something truly interested me, I invested myself without question. I hadn't any idea what length of time passed, but I sat very still and watched the curious visitor hop along the balcony. I placed a crumb between us and sat back, waiting, watching until it fluttered closer and accepted my offering.

Small, black eyes like tiny beads from a doll stared back at me and I smiled inwardly, pleased by this colorful, bold intruder. I reached for my nearly empty plate and rolled another piece of bread onto the ledge. Cautiously the bird hopped forward and accepted.

This continued until I held the last crumb in the palm of my hand and waited patiently for the songbird to pluck it from my grasp. The bird turned its head to the side, hopped closer, and hopped onto my thumb. The sensation of its tiny feet on my flesh made me inhale sharply, but just as soon as it had perched on me, it hopped away and nibbled its reward.

At supper, my brave guest returned and I rewarded his company with bread and mimicked chirps. Birds called to one another as the sun set and I imagined they were jealous of the song bird's meals. I marveled at this creature's trust and at the prickle of his feet against my hand, then the flutter of wings. Several times I considered snatching it out of the air and caging this foolish creature, but I had no desire to break its trust.

Despite my tumultuous past, I entered Persia with a great deal of innocence.

The following morning, the bird had the audacity to wait for me on the table. I chuckled to myself as I pulled out the chair and sat with a bowl of fruit, honey, and several slices of bread. I ate in silence and watched the impatient creature dance closer, then retreat until I finished and held out my hand for him to perch before I rewarded him with his own meal.

He had barely flown onto my outstretch hand when he let out a squawk and tumbled backward onto the table. His tiny form rolled off the table and onto the ground and for a brief moment I sat motionless, unable to comprehend what I had done.

At last I glanced beneath the table and found the bird dead, its yellow beak open, its beady eyes blank. With my heart racing I knelt and gathered it in my hands and found a dart the length of my finger jutting from its yellow breast.

"Animals are filthy," I heard the sultana say. "My beast will not have the pleasure of a pet."

I set the small body onto the balcony and stood very still, unable to tell where the voice had come from. It sounded as though she stood within my apartment, though the room was empty.

"A wild animal is not a pet," I replied. My muscles tensed and I waited for another dart to pierce me through the chest, impale me as it had done the songbird.

"You have no idea where I stand," she said, her words filled with amusement.

"No, I do know where you stand," I corrected.

"Then look at me."

I turned away from the balcony and gathered my empty plates and prepared to shove them beneath the door. "I have already told you, Sultan's daughter, but I challenge all set before me."

And then she stood before me, seemingly borne out of the gossamer curtains blowing in the morning breeze. She deftly cut off my path, her blade in hand, which was once again pointed at my throat. I paused abruptly, gaze trained on what I suspected was a false threat.

"Aren't you lovely this morning," I said as I stared at her.

She stood unflinching before me, not the slightest quiver of steel at my throat.

"And what entertaining conversation from the Sultan's ravishing daughter."

"They await my command," she whispered, her voice like the hiss of a rattle snake.

Eyes narrowed, I stared at her black veiling knowing she was not intimidated by my presence in the least, yet I felt my breath hitch in trepidation.

"I could signal to my favorite archer and you would no longer have your right eye," she said. "Or my favorite swordsman and you would writhe in agony from your busted kidney." For a long moment she paused. "Or perhaps my most adored chef sprinkled a little poison onto your breakfast and you would beg for the mercy of my archers and swordsmen."

"I beg for nothing," I replied.

There was truth behind my words and she nodded once, though I wasn't sure if it was in appreciation or if she found me ridiculously assured.

She withdrew her blade, but before I could react, she jabbed me in the thigh, the tip piercing where my leg met my groin and instantly I stepped back and the dishes fell to the ground, shattering at my feet. Blood poured from the wound, a flood of crimson against the soft, cream fabric.

An arrow sailed past my ear and a dagger hissed past my arm, the blade catching my sleeve before it clattered to the ground. The little sultana turned and walked into the curtains where she seemingly disappeared into the wall.

"They didn't miss," she assured me. "Rest, my toy, I shall retrieve you soon."

When I looked out onto the balcony, there was no one in view. The dead bird, I noticed, was also missing. If not for the broken dishes and puncture to my thigh, I would have considered it a vivid dream. Unfortunately, it was only the first cruel moments of an unending nightmare.

The following morning, she came for me.

-0-

Arden and Kamil were interchangeable at first. Neither man said much when they were near and they both possessed the strength of a bear. I had no idea who was sent to retrieve me, but whichever man it was stood ten paces away and watched my every move as I dressed.

"Open your mouth," he instructed.

I grunted. "You're supposed to examine a gift horse before the purchase."

He grabbed my jaw and forced my mouth open. "Good," he said.

I knew he searched for weapons, which also meant he was taking me either before the Sultan himself or his daughter. I wondered if assassination attempts had happened in the past but thought it better not to ask.

"What happened to your leg?"

"Your Sultana," I answered.

He never even blinked. "You are fortunate."

I shrugged. "Is this a Persian's sense of fortune?"

He didn't bother entertaining my thoughts and grabbed me by the arm, effectively dragging me from my apartments without saying another word.

Every corridor looked the same and I counted my footsteps and paid close attention to the direction which we traveled. It was easy to memorize as my escort said nothing from the moment we left to the moment we arrived in a large, rectangular room with a single chair in the far corner. Mirrors adorned the walls and torches lit the room.

"Stay here," he said.

Just where in the hell he suspected I would go I had no idea, but I nodded nonetheless and stayed with my hands clasped behind my back. Left alone, my anxiety escalated and I held my breath as I waited and listened for footsteps, the click of a door, the unsheathing of a sword.

Moments passed and my breaths turned steady rather than ragged. I knew she watched me like a spider perched within its web, waiting for me to let down my guard. I wondered if she smiled behind her veil, pleased with herself for how I reacted.

If this was a game, then I wished nothing more than to play and deal my own hand. If she wanted to kill me there was nothing I could do to stop her, which in its own twisted way was a relief. If I showed no fear, I was not at her mercy.

Death had never been a fearful subject to me, though I had always felt as though I lived and breathed hell. Physical pain I could tolerate, and I stood taller and dared her to challenge me on any level. I had survived two decades beneath my father's cruel hands and gypsies; I would be damned if a woman behind a veil threatened me.

I lifted my chin and exposed my throat, then spread my hands and held my arms loosely at my sides and waited, anticipating the pierce of an arrow or the stab of a dagger. My agitation grew as I stood alone and unharmed.

"Damn," I said under my breath.

There was no answer to my curse and I strolled boldly across the room and seated myself in the chair as my injured leg grew fatigued.

I was certain a full hour passed and nothing of interest occurred. To my surprise, one of the twins entered and looked equally surprised to find me seated in the corner.

"To your chambers," he ordered.

I stood and rejoined him, regarding him a moment as he waited for me to step close enough so that he could grab me by the arm.

"I have no desire to put up a fight," I said smoothly.

He looked me over, then nodded toward the door. "Walk."

I returned to my apartments, he shoved me inside, which I considered was more for show than anything else, and the door was locked behind me.

The following day the same sequence took place and I immediately went to the chair and seated myself for an hour before I was lead to my chamber and retired for the night in a warm, comfortable bed. My leg throbbed and I suspected the start of an infection as I had not cleaned it as well as I should have.

At dawn, when my breakfast arrived, I took the honey and spread it onto my leg over the wound, then ripped apart one of my shirts and used it as a wrap over the injury. Hours passed and there was no pounding at the door and no twin to fetch me from my solitude and parade me down the hall. For a fleeting moment I longed for my days with the gypsies, who never fed, clothed, or housed me in such impeccable surroundings, yet never tormented me with endless boredom. The thought amused me; years of my life wasted in their company suddenly seemed almost tolerable.

I likened myself to the dogs the gypsy kept, which performed twice a night. The three animals were kept together in a single cage until needed for their part of the act, at which time they sprang out, danced and leapt before a crowd, and then all too readily returned to their age, as was their routine. The Sultan could have saved himself a great deal of money if he had invested in gypsy dogs.

As if knowing my thoughts, my apartment door flung open and there stood the twins with the Sultana carefully tucked behind them. Though startled, I remained where I sat on the balcony in loose trousers, my shirt hung over the chair across from me.

They offered no conversation, so I continued to eat in silence, though with each passing second I became wary of their presence. The incident with the bird was still in the forefront of my thoughts.

"You do not cringe at the sight of me?" she asked casually. The twins parted at her words and she stepped forward and drew her blade again.

I was no stranger to physical pain, though mostly the strike of a fist or a kick to the belly came without warning. For the longest time heavy footsteps down uneven stairs led to anticipation of pain, or the smell of alcohol made me tense. Now I wondered what would condition me; the mere sight of food, the serenity of sunlight and a soft breeze, or the sight of a veiled woman. I suspected all three would eventually knot my stomach.

She stood over me and I realized I had stopped eating. Slowly I turned to face her, this woman without a face, and I nodded.

"Care to join me?" I asked.

She laughed, which I hadn't expected, and I sat back, chilled from the sound of her mirth. She tapped her thin blade on my shoulder and I flinched, but either she didn't notice or she didn't care.

"You amuse me, my toy," she said.

The blade continued to tap my shoulder and I waited, anticipated her piercing my flesh. In my mind, I imagined each fall of the blade to my bare shoulder as a drum beat and filled in the pauses with cellos and violins until the start of a symphony came to me. I have no doubt she would have impaled me had she known my attention faded from her and I retreated into my own thoughts.

"Walk with me," she said.

The twins stepped from her and flanked me, and I gave a heavy sigh as I placed my fork on the edge of my plate and waited for them to haul me to my feet.

"You do not care to walk with me?" she asked. The blade lowered, the tip pointed at my groin.

"I don't care for routine," I answered as the twins hefted me from the chair and gripped my bare arms so roughly I grit my teeth.

She nodded once, and one of the twins immediately ripped my mask from my face. I jerked to the side, despite knowing it was useless, despite my complete understanding of her tactics. She bent toward me and paused for a long moment and I wonder if she truly stared at my visage or if she simply closed her eyes and waited, drawing out the seconds.

"Oh, but my pet," she said, her voice low. "You have no idea how much this pleases me."


	3. East

Corrections made. Thanks Jax!

Persia3

My mask was left within the apartment, far from my reach, while I was dragged into the marble corridor. Kamil—or so I thought—glanced at me, a hint of sympathy in his gaze as they silently escorted me down the hall.

We were not heading toward the familiar, empty room I had been taken to repeatedly and I turned to Kamil. "Where are we headed?"

He looked to the Sultana for permission to answer.

"You have been taken to a room," she said.

"We passed the entrance," I said.

She grunted. "You do not know this palace as I do, my toy," she replied.

"It's east of where we are," I pointed out. I was certain and I refused to be told I was mistaken when I had counted every damned turn and each step of my captors.

She paused abruptly and stood before me, her gloved hand gripping her weapon. "You are confident?"

I nodded.

"Wager your confidence against my knowledge of the palace grounds," she dared.

Eyes narrowed, I considered her words. "What is the prize?"

"Your manhood."

Despite the sudden twist in my gut, I remained stone-faced. "On what grounds do you set this wager?"

"That we have not yet passed the long hall," she answered. "Do you accept?"

"No."

I could hear her breathing harder and knew she was angered by refusal.

"That is not what I said," I replied. "We may have passed the hall, but I said it was east of here. We're walking north."

The twins loosened their grip on my arms.

"You are certain?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Then lead the way."

The twins stepped away from me and I looked them both over, surprised by the ounce of freedom I had been given. At once I turned on my heel and started down the hall with the Sultana at my side. I slowed as I rounded the corner and looked around. There was no way to go east, toward the entrance. My brow furrowed.

"Well, my toy, it does seem you are mistaken."

I ignored her words and the sudden but expected jab of her sword at my hip. Despite how it appeared, I knew I was not mistaken; the halls had changed.

I felt along the cool stone wall and searched from top to bottom, which drew exchanged looks from the twins. They knew damned well I was correct, yet they offered no suggestion—and even if they had offered assistance I would have baulked and set out on my own, as was my nature.

"Now, for the wager," the Sultana said smoothly.

"There was no wager," I grumbled, more frustrated I could not prove her wrong when I honestly should have put greater consideration in what she desired.

"The hall entrance is north," she said. "Not east."

"No," I insisted.

"Surrender."

"This is deception!" I yelled, aggravated with the situation.

I doubted anyone else could hear it other than myself, and for the music in my blood I was entirely grateful. My ears were well tuned to musical notes as well as subtle changes in sound, and my brief time within the opera house served me well.

"There!" I yelled as I took a step further and felt along the wall, hearing the change in pitch, a shallow sound as opposed to resonating. I was not completely surrounded by stone. "There!"

The sound was somewhat hollow, almost flat. I pounded my fist onto the wall and the material beneath my hand wasn't stone, but a sort of glaze over a different material. Clay, I thought.

"What is this?" I asked as I turned and looked to the twins.

Neither of them spoke, but by their wary expressions I knew I was correct. Agitated, I pulled back my arm and prepared to destroy whatever illusion had been created.

The flick of a blade slicing the air gave me pause, and the Sultana shook her head. "Enough," she snapped.

I couldn't tell if she was angered or pleased, though I suspected regardless she would jab me with her sword. She motioned for me to back up and I obediently moved until my shoulders touched the wall. With a wave of her hand she requested I kneel and I did so, placing my hands above my head.

Foolishly I had no qualms of having my throat slit then and there as I knew I was correct; the walls moved and the entrance to that hall were east of where we stood. My only regret was that I wouldn't see the mechanism that moved the walls and changed our direction. I was also curious as to where she had intended to lead me.

"Ah, my toy, you know what I desire from you?" she questioned.

I was not about to answer her, as she had not merely hinted at castration, it seemed to be a calculated plan. Impatiently I waited for execution. Anything less than death and I would struggle.

She traced along my collarbone with the sword tip, though she carefully avoided any pressure along my flesh as not to injure me.

"The gypsy was correct," she said, skimming the blade across my chest and I suspected she drew letters upon me. It both terrified and aroused me, this dance between pleasure and the threat of pain. "You are unlike anything I expected."

Though I knew it made no difference to her, this pleased me.

"Indeed, I am unlike any creature you have ever purchased, Sultan's daughter. I dare say I'm better," I replied.

This drew a laugh from one of the twins.

"Kamil," his brother warned.

I looked the two of them over and saw only the slightest difference in them; Kamil was undoubtedly the softer of the two, if a man the size of a bull could be called such. He held my gaze, amused by my words.

"I require obedience," the Sultana said. "Which you have not shown."

"Your purchase was clearly defective."

She ignored my remark. "So many before you bored me, they disappointed me with petty tricks fit for an ignorant child." She removed the sword tip from my chest and drew it back, and like a coward I balled my hands into fists, bracing myself.

"But you have entertained me."

"It has been a pleasure."

My voice stayed steady, and in the pause between heartbeats I knew she wouldn't kill me, not just yet. There was too much arrogance and potential, and she desired both.

She gave a low grunt, then lunged at me, her sword extended. I swayed, fell to my hands and knees as the room swirled. Levers turned and the wall shifted, though unexpected movement jarred me and I wasn't sure what had happened, at least not fully.

The Sultana stood over me, her sword impaled in the wall. I had been correct in my assumptions; the hall was to the east and our direction had changed, pivoted. Beneath my splayed fingers I saw and felt the rounded stones so perfectly pieced together no one would ever suspect it moved.

I sat up and grunted, satisfied with the discovery. She could have impaled me, left me to die on the secret floor and I would have laughed with my last stolen breath.

"I was correct," I said. "East."

"Yes, my toy," she said, which garnered my attention. She sheathed her sword. "Come. I much desire a shiver."


	4. Beyond the Wall

Persia4

"How does your leg feel?" the Sultana asked as I involuntarily followed her toward the long, empty hall. For a woman a full head shorter than myself and considerably smaller than her twin guards, she kept an impressive, urgent pace.

"It feels like I was stabbed," I answered.

Kamil dug his fingers into my arm, and from the edge of my vision I saw him shake his head.

The Sultana continued the same rapid pace down the long corridor and I watched her closely, knowing at any moment she could turn her swiftness into anger. She glided like an apparition, her movements deceptively fluid. Other than the hush of fabric, she made no sound.

"In your former states of ownership, how were you punished?"

Her question irritated me. "Until Ganush, I was never offered for sale."

"Your parents did not sell you to the gypsies?"

"They did not."

She mulled over my response for several paces. "How did you come into their hands, then, if not sold?"

Her sudden, unbidden interest in my life silenced me from any remark, and as suspected she paused. The twins came to a sudden halt and I dug my heels into the floor, my leather sandals screeching against polished marble.

"I will not ask the same question twice."

She placed her right hand on the hilt of her obscured sword, though I glanced at her threat with minimal interest.

"I left," I replied.

"Cast out?"

"No."

Her gloved fingers tapped her weapon. "What did it feel like to have your life exchanged for riches?"

I offered a humorless laugh. "Like a sincere form of flattery."

Her rigid posture told me she had no patience for my words. "You did not cry out when I stabbed you," she said. It was a statement spoken with absolute certainty. The rules of the game were becoming clear to me; she wished to see me flinch, either by mental or physical pain. If I had learned nothing in life, it was to endure both.

I stared at her veiled head and shrugged. "I do not believe I did."

"Your tolerance is different than most." She turned her head to the side and I knew she studied the right side of my face. Without it, I knew she held the upper hand. "You do not feel pain as a normal man would feel."

"The Devil feels nothing," I said under my breath, my gaze hardened. I would be damned if she bested me.

My answer apparently pleased her and she turned away, motioning for the twins to follow her. I held my breath as we lurched forward and wanted to shout that I was not immune to suffering, that marked at birth had not released me from pain. If anything, it had heightened my misery, always drawing me back into its cold vice and reducing me to an insignificant beast.

I heard every whisper from mother to child, each gasp of horror and shriek. For hours after I was removed from them display, their words still writhed within me.

_What in the hell was that thing?_

_He cannot be real, yet he moved! It truly is a living corpse._

There was no tolerance on my part, merely bitterness. The shame I felt turned to numbness, though it was always inside me. Dormant, yet still alive. Hidden, yet growing into a storm. I hated them for their ignorant comments—and I hated myself for allowing it.

Lost in my own thoughts, I didn't immediately notice we had not traveled to the empty hall but toward double doors leading to the palace exit. I glanced at Kamil, who met my eye with an expression I thought bordered on pity. He looked away immediately and squinted as he and his brother escorted me from the shadows of a courtyard overhang into the blinding afternoon sun.

There was little of interest to see as far as I could tell. There were two stone planters with young palms set up against the exterior of the building. Smaller planters and shallow bowls held dry dirt or the dried, fragile remains of flowers. Smooth marble gave way to stone slabs leading toward a high wooden fence. What lay beyond I couldn't tell, but the air had a peculiar scent, like burning hair though I saw no signs of smoke.

"It is expensive and foolish to feed and house the condemned," she said as she turned toward me and once again gripped the hilt of her sword.

Perspiration beaded my forehead, the air thick and dry around us, not at all comfortable or even tolerable like European summers. I was not accustomed to such suffocating heat and I squinted, my eyes watering from the sunlight. Dressed in black and covered completely, I wondered how the Sultana kept from fainting.

"How would you execute murderers?" she asked, her tone deceptively casual.

"Put them in the heat," I said under my breath.

She lifted her chin. "Agonizing, yes, but it holds little interest to me."

I looked away from her and studied the fence, wondering what hell existed beyond the gate. It was fashioned for strength instead of beauty, meant to hold something in—or perhaps keep something out.

"Tell me, my toy, how would you terminate such violent, unnecessary lives?"

"That would depend on the manner of their crime."

"Killers, murders," she said as though this offered clarification. "The filth of society, the scraps barely fit for civilization."

I suspected she spoke of me strangling the gypsy who had beaten me in front of a crowd. Though I wasn't sure how she knew of the incident, I fully admitted I killed him, but I didn't consider it murder. He had beaten me to the edge of consciousness and then, when I was rendered incapable of fighting back, he allowed other children my age to kick me and spit on my face until whatever mechanism normally shut down my thoughts suddenly raged to life.

I had not murdered him, I had reached the end of my tolerance.

"What was the circumstance leading to death?" I asked, fully expecting to defend myself.

"A man entered a home in the dead of night and killed the head of the house, then raped and killed the women and daughters, beheaded all of them, and staked their heads in the street."

Her words were spoken without a hint of horror or remorse. I could almost picture her smile as she detailed the story.

"He should pay in the same manner," I answered.

The Sultana clasped her gloved hands. "What retribution did you pay for your wrongdoings?"

"I took payments in advance," I replied. "My wrongdoings were rarely explained to me."

The twins stepped back and she circled me, her hidden gaze fixed upon my still form. As my eyes grew accustomed to the light, I swore I could make out her underlying features, the curve of her nose and her lips curled up in a cruel smile. Whether it was an illusion of my mind or truth I didn't know, but I doubted very much she could offer a sincere smile.

I doubted I could do the same.

"And what were your crimes?"

She paused behind me, just out of my vision. The only indication of how close she stood was the sound of her clothing rustled by the breeze and her harsh breaths. I couldn't tell if she had exerted herself or if she breathed in anger.

"Disobedience, speaking out of turn, illusions—"

"Illusions," she echoed, apparently without concern for my other wrongdoings. She stayed behind me and I swallowed, not wondering if she would stab me again, but the precise moment of when. If I had not cried out the first time, I expected she would continue her games until satisfied with the ending. "What type of illusions?"

"Appearing human."

"You are a most hideous creation," she agreed. "I imagine only the blind would be able to look upon your face with their sightless eyes and not feel complete repulsion. The marks upon your face are truly the work of some sinister being."

She spoke delicately, which felt like a flint against my always smoldering anger. I had so often heard people mutter under their breath and curse me, but none as far as I could remember stood before me and detailed their horror with such poise—at least not for a long time. To them I was an object, void of emotion. They spoke of me as they would a horse offered for purchase.

"If you saw such a creature as yourself pass on the street, what would you do?" she questioned.

My gaze faltered and she stepped closer. It didn't matter if her face was hidden; in the recesses of my mind I could see the expressions of those who had paid to view me in the fairs. I could almost hear the gasp of a woman who refused to look away, see the way another went pale and had to be helped away. The laughter and shrieks of children barely older than myself seemed to travel on the desert wind.

"I would look away," I answered at last, though I wasn't sure of whom I spoke; the one being watched or the watcher.

My voice had all but disappeared and I suppressed a shudder. Given the option to separate the man within and the monster on the outside, I would have hurried away and never once looked back. I would have gladly parted with such wickedness. I had dreamed of being a different person, even if only for a day.

"But he would still be there," she replied.

"Indeed."

She strolled around me and walked toward the far end of the open courtyard where the fence loomed in the distance. The path led toward a slender wooden door in the middle. I looked to the twins and Arden nodded, signaling I should follow. His shadow played alongside mine, but he didn't bother tugging me forward.

The Sultana paused at the door and waited for me.

"The killer," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

She unlatched the door and pulled it open, and I stood, my hand shielding my eyes as I peered over her and into the empty prison yard.

A man stood chained in the middle of the otherwise empty prison yard, the iron cells apparently cleared of their temporary inhabitance. He wrenched his body back and forth so violently I thought he was in the midst of a fit.

"The man I spoke of," she said, her tone hinting at fondness. "The beheadings."

I dared to look at him, this thrashing beast attempting to free himself. Despite the dirt and sweat caked on his face, I studied him and considered the Sultana's words. If I had seen him on the street, I would not have turned away, yet he was a cruel and wicked monster. It made me hate him, this man I didn't know, for his appearance more than his actions.

"What would you have done to him?" she asked.

"That is not my choice," I answered.

"No, but it is my question."

When I looked over her shoulder I could still see the man struggling. He foamed at the mouth, his long, tangled hair partially obscuring his wide-eyed, twisted expression. I felt ashamed to stare at him, as though it reduced me to the onlookers handing their coins to a filthy gypsy that would allow them to gape at the refuse and oddities of the world.

At last I forced my eyes away, but his screaming still unnerved me. I had encountered a woman prone to fits of unrest. She was kept shacked at all times for fear of what she would do to others as well as herself. His violent outburst reminded me of her unsettling actions. The woman I had seen eventually killed herself with her own chains.

"My toy," the Sultana said sternly.

"I would see to it he never hurt another woman or child."

She lifted her hand and motioned as though calling a servant. For a long moment she waited, and the man bound in chains began screaming her title. His voice was hoarse, his words slurred and incomprehensible.

"Sultana!" he screamed. "Look at me!"

She ignored his cries, though I could not force my attention from his desperate pleas. I thought back to my days with the gypsies and how I had always remained quiet and slipped from my cage on display to my cage in the back. I wanted nothing more than to disappear. This man, however, wanted an audience.

"You have pleased me with your decision," she said as she closed the door and pressed herself to it, her hands splayed against the wood planks. Before she had locked the door, the man cried out; a gurgling, deathly plea or final protest that sliced through the silence. Chains rattled before the sound abruptly ended with what I thought was a gunshot.

The Sultana gave a blissful sigh, then rested her hand on her sword and turned to face me. She stood very still, her breaths unexpectedly ragged. She seemed almost at peace, as though tension had given way to release. After several seconds, she opened the door a mere crack and peered inside.

"Your first execution," she said as she closed the door and sauntered past me. "One of many, I hope."

She didn't request that I follow her and I had no intention of moving. As I stood with sweat dripping into my eyes, I had yet to comprehend what had happened.

I stared at the closed door and debated on whether I should feel remorse or relief. A murderer had been put to a swift death. He was of no concern to me, a nameless entity with no identification save his crime.

I shuddered, afraid of how similar we truly were.

"My toy," the Sultana said casually. She paused twenty paces from me and joined Kamil, who had turned away, his hands clasped behind his back. "Your face, it is different to me now."

With my eyes cast down, I waited for her to leave and for Arden to escort me back to my lovely, ornate cage. I tired of her interest in me, of the way she hid her face and exposed mine. I tired of her games and her carefully executed words.

"You are not broken," she said.

I shot her a look but didn't ask what she meant. Perhaps in her eyes I was whole, a man gruesome both on the inside and out. Perhaps she considered me still wild, a feral beast in need of a heavy hand to break my spirit.

"We will have a fine time, my precious toy, a fine time," she promised before she strolled away and disappeared into the palace.

The man's screams still echoed through my thoughts and I didn't move from where I stood. My leg ached, my face and neck burning beneath the scorching midday sun.

Arden reached for my arm, but I shrugged him away. "I know the way," I said under my breath, yet I had no idea where I would go. I was certain the smell that filled my nostrils was burning flesh and hair.

"Arden!" a man shouted as he burst from the palace and dashed toward us. He was tall and lanky, matching the twins in height but thin, almost stretched. He slowed once he had a look at me—a good look at me—and I turned, placing my hand over the right side of my face.

"What did I hear?" the man asked frantically. "What was that shouting?"

"It is done," Arden replied.

The man's face darkened, but he nodded and glanced at me briefly, his pale green eyes fixed on the back of my hand.

"Good day," he said with unexpected grace. He nodded and offered a slight yet uncomfortable smile instead of a handshake, which I was incapable of offering. "What do you call yourself?"

No one had offered me such a polite introduction, and I eyed him with suspicion and waited for him to add insult to his words. I studied him a moment, this tall and well-dressed stranger who had come barreling toward us. It surprised me that he bothered to address a purchased man—no less one as marked as me.

"The devil's son," Arden said with a nod toward me and a hint of humor in his words.

"Erik," I corrected, irritated by his sardonic tone.

The man looked me over before his gaze settled on my hand once more. "Nadir Khan," he said, offering a tight smile. "Though they call me the Daroga as well."

Before I could ask, Arden grunted. "The devil's child meets the Sultan's head of police. Some would say it is like reuniting brothers."

He didn't look old enough to hold such authority, though I suppose he probably thought I didn't look old enough to claim the title of devil's son, either. I excused his curiosity as nothing more than duty.

"Your accent, it is French, isn't it?" he questioned.

I nodded, not realizing how many years I had spent in and around Paris.

"But you are Scandinavian, yes?"

"At first."

He chuckled at my answer, though he seemed genuinely humored and not mocking. "You have traveled much."

"Not always on my own terms," I said.

To that he nodded and frowned. "You are the new one, then?" Nadir questioned.

Arden took me roughly by the arm and pulled me away before I could reply. "That has yet to be seen, Daroga."

I glanced back at Nadir Khan and thought I saw him shake his head in dismay.

"What did he mean?" I asked as he shoved me through the doorway.

Arden glared at me. "He meant nothing," he said through his teeth.

"What am I?" I asked. "The new what?"

His dark eyes stared straight ahead, his hand like a vice around my arm. "Walk," he ordered.


	5. Woman in White

Persia5

I would not be easily deterred. Arden opened my apartment door and motioned for me to walk inside. By the glint in his black eyes, I knew he waited for me to protest. As a wall of solid muscle, he would best me physically. Mentally, however, he was of little concern. Few possessed brawn as well as cunning.

Without looking at him, I strolled inside, retrieved my mask from the table, and gathered a stack of books and other materials I had set aside earlier in the day. Contents in hand, I walked toward the balcony. The area was thankfully shaded, a calm, steady breeze wafting through the open double doors that carried the scent of the garden. The fragrance replaced the odor of death still clinging to my clothes.

"Thank you for the outing," I muttered.

I heard the apartment door close, then the shuffle of footsteps behind me, which made me snort. I had suspected when I ignored him that he would follow me and ask questions.

"What is on the Persian menu for this afternoon?" I asked. I had tired of eggplant and rice which seemed to be favorites. Parisians enjoyed much richer, more satisfying foods than the Persians and I longed for a meal drenched in wine and butter.

Arden didn't reply, and I spread out my books and papers before turning to face him.

The Sultana stood where I expected Arden. I looked from her to the door, then back again.

"How did you enter?" I asked.

"You are not surprised to see me?" she questioned.

"Not entirely." Her presence annoyed me.

She held out a gloved hand and showed me a brass key. "Your reward."

I glanced at it, but made no attempt to claim her given prize. Quite frankly I wanted no reward from her hand, given I had nothing to celebrate.

"So that I may walk the halls unchecked?" I questioned. "Or would this make me Sultan?"

"A small gift," she replied smoothly, ignoring my words. Seeing as I would not accept it from her hand, she left it on the table. "It will be delivered this afternoon."

"If I do not accept?"

She turned and walked toward the door as though to spite me. "You may do with it as you wish," she said. "I care not."

Once the door closed, I waited to hear the turn of the lock, then walked into the room and searched for a mechanism similar to her revolving wall. I knew for certain the column leading to the balcony contained a secret entrance, but that was not what she had used to appear suddenly. If there was a different way in, then undoubtedly there were multiple ways out. I merely had to find them and that, above all else, would be my reward.

The minutes past and I found the hidden door set within the wall, but no mechanism with which to open it. I stood back and searched from the high ceiling to the floor along every inch of the wall, but there was nothing. With a sigh, I placed my hands on my hips and frowned, knowing it would not be so blatantly visible. She perhaps had a second person in waiting that opened the passage for her, though I suspected she did much of her bidding alone.

I lifted my mask and wiped my face, frustrated I had not yet discovered the passage. No matter the cage, I had always freed myself when I desired—even if it took months to find escape. The punishment mattered little to me, as I had grown accustomed to what was considered my "taming". Already I knew the Sultana would issue pain, but not death as I had not given her the satisfaction she desired.

This, however, was not a lock to pick. I glanced at the key left on the table and exhaled. Curiosity replaced determination and I pulled out the chair and sat hunched over the brass key left atop a leather-bound book. I considered hurling it over the balcony but settled for studying it a moment before I took up a piece of charcoal the length of my thumb and mindlessly passed the time drawing.

The silence was absolute, the courtyard below empty. With the traveling fair there were always sights and an abundance of sounds and smells. Children ran screaming, men and women engaged in conversation and I tucked myself into the shadows where I entertained myself as I listened. There was never much of interest to hear, but I learned much of the cities where we stayed and the preferences of the people. I learned words a boy was not supposed to know and heard many arguments as well as passionate moments. I knew a great deal more than anyone would have ever guessed and the information flowed freely, like wine from an overturned bottle.

Here, however, I was separated from the palace inhabitance, and the longer I sat alone the more infuriated I became with my boredom. There was far too much on my mind and not enough to occupy my thoughts. Repeatedly I saw the condemned man struggle and the image bore so deeply into my mind that I shuddered.

Though I had no interest in horticulture, I took to drawing the flowers snaking up the balcony and the potted plants that had been carefully tended. I needed to see and experience life over death, as insignificant as it was around me.

I yawned and stretched, then swung my legs up and rested my feet on the chair opposite of where I sat and reclined. I despised the manicured gardens and tranquil fountains, hated the pristine walls and lavishly finished room. There was little to offer respite when my mind was so overwhelmed with what I had seen earlier. His last moments of madness had become my burden for hours.

The traveling fair held entirely different deceptions meant to thrill those with enough money to purchase a gasp or shriek.

But this…this was truly false. The traveling fair smelled like beasts and unwashed humanity while this sprawling palace smelled like exotic perfumes. Only the courtyard with its distant yet distinct odor of burning hair gave away what existed out of sight.

And then there was the matter of hidden doors and moving walls. There were far too many tricks and traps, none of which I had conceived.

I started to gather the blank sheets of paper when I noticed movement in the garden below. A wisp of white weaved through verdant green and garnered my attention. At once I held my breath and paused, waiting for the threat to step closer and show itself.

To my surprise, a young woman appeared through the bushes and sat at the fountain. She was not covered from head to toe like the Sultana, but her modest clothing lent little to imagination.

Brow furrowed, I studied her for a long moment while she sat facing away from me and pulled her fingers through the water. I wondered why she intruded upon the gardens and if she knew what wickedness loomed over her. The longer she sat I also considered the bird I had coaxed to eat from my hand and wondered if archers lay in wait for her as well.

Moments passed and she seemed perfectly fascinated by the splash of water. She leaned further over the edge until I thought she'd fall in, but she balanced herself like a cat and continued to paw at the surface.

How on earth she managed to entertain herself with the same motions over and over again I had no idea, and the longer I watched her the more I realized I was just as easily amused. With a heavy sigh, I gathered up the contents of the table and stood, pushing my chair back from the table.

"You there!" the woman shouted.

Her shrill greeting startled me and I froze, my gaze traveling from the table to where she stood bare-footed on the edge of the fountain. Though she wore a long skirt and sleeved shirt, her face was clearly visible as were her hands, which she waved furiously over her head. It took a long moment for it to register that she spoke to me and I nodded back.

"You aren't going to say hello?" she questioned.

"Hello," I said softly before I turned away and returned inside with only a book tucked beneath my arm.

She laughed, her voice ringing out in the quiet afternoon. I glanced back and couldn't see her any longer, though the sound of her voice echoed through me. It was not the shrill, satisfied sounds of a woman enjoying a good fright, which was the only sound ever directed at me. This woman standing on the fountain laughed as hearty as I had sometimes heard the gypsies as they played cards well into the night or shared meals out of my reach.

There had been nothing said or done that warranted such jovial sounds and I turned away quickly and tossed the book onto my bed. I caught a mere glance in the mirror and immediately closed my eyes. Despite the comfortable warmth to the room, my insides turned deathly cold and inhaled sharply.

There was always a reason for a jest. I wore it daily, mask or not. The laughter eventually faded and I dared to peer out the balcony doors where I found the garden once again vacant. Just as the Sultana had appeared, this woman had vanished. I didn't care for either of them and being alone suddenly seemed like a relief. Perhaps this was my reward; complete solitude.

oooOooo

Day turned into a cool evening and I left the lamps turned low. My leg had become increasingly bothersome and it hurt to stand for longer periods of time. There was no sign of infection and I suspected the long walk outside had overexerted the injury. Lunch and supper were not delivered and, evidentially forgotten, I lay and stared at the ceiling until the sound of the door latch being lifted made me realize I'd fallen asleep.

I sat up quickly and took in a deep, almost desperate breath as the twins entered unannounced and immediately turned up the lamps closest to the door.

"Delivering my reward?" I asked with a yawn. "I do not accept deliveries at such an inconvenient hour."

Neither of them acknowledged me. It was then that I noticed they were not alone.

The Sultana donned a white veil and dress that covered her completely, and when she walked I heard the slightest tinkle of brass bells. It was far too innocent a sound for her and I turned away, having no desire for her presence.

I looked to Kamil, who met my eye, then allowed his gaze to wander. My gut tightened and I paused, then felt the prick of a knife's tip on my shoulder. The woman in white still stood before me.

"Sultana," I said without moving a muscle.

"My toy," she said, her voice a deep, resonating growl.

I kept my gaze trained on the woman before me dressed in white, who swayed ever so slightly and filled the room with her own playful tune.

"To what do I owe this distinct pleasure?" I asked.

She removed the blade tip and stood before me, draped as always in solid black. Once I saw her form I silently cursed myself for thinking she would dress in white and realized my misstep.

"Are you still in possession of the key?"

"I am."

"That is well." She walked past me and stood before the other woman in white—whom I wasn't so certain was a woman.

"You are a pariah," the Sultana said quite suddenly. She turned to face me, a black ghost suddenly rigid. "No family, no friendships…you live because I have allowed it. Is that understood?" She pointed a dagger the length of her hand at my chest and I nodded. Her words were heated, more so than I had ever heard from her.

I favored my right leg, though she didn't seem to notice or care that I showed weakness and she made no comment nor attempt to take advantage.

She lifted her hand and motioned to the twins. "Give her here," she said coldly.

Both men secured their hands around the woman's arms and gently guided her forward until she stood beside the Sultana. Behind the veil, the woman in white chuckled and I immediately recognized the new player in the Sultana's game. It aggravated me that I had failed to realize the woman who had stood on the fountain's edge would not simply disappear.

"Shazeen," the Sultana said, her voice still edgy. "This is my toy."

She teetered back and forth, her anklets clattering with each movement. "Will you greet me now, toy?" she questioned.

My gaze dropped to her bare feet and I knew I visibly swallowed. I had faltered, though I wasn't sure how or when precisely whatever scrap of arrogance I had possessed chose to abandon me.

The Sultana reached toward the woman and grabbed a handful of her veil, which she ripped away. The woman laughed again, her painted eyes creased, her darkened lips parted as she threw her head back.

"Shazeen," Kamil said through his teeth as he shook her just hard enough to garner her attention.

The woman fell silent, though her breaths were ragged. She trembled, her lips still parted in a wide smile. "Why does he hide his face?" she asked once she looked at me.

Her words still stung, though I was no stranger to humiliation. I looked her in the eye, expecting her to avert her gaze first, but she didn't. She shook loose of the twins grasp and sauntered toward me, every move recorded by delicate sound.

"Shazeen," the Sultana warned and the woman froze. "You have not asked for my permission."

The woman looked away from me and her smile widened. I turned to see what had caught her attention and saw the Sultana hold out an intricately carved dark wooden box. She walked away from me, her hands held out to accept the box, which the Sultana handed to her.

Shazeen dropped to her knees and cradled the box in her lap as she began to claw at the polished lid. Her movements turned frantic, her breaths harder and faster until each one emerged a growl of frustration.

"No," she said under her breath. "No."

"I have a key," I said suddenly.

Shazeen jutted out her hand. "Give it to me," she demanded, all hints of mirth gone from her expression and tone.

I turned to question the Sultana as to the box's content, but she had disappeared. Kamil and Arden had turned to the door as well.

"What's in it?" I asked no one in particular. Arden didn't slow his pace and walked through the open door while Kamil glanced back at me.

"I cannot say," he answered, though he didn't specify if he wasn't aware or wasn't allowed to divulge information. Without another word, he left and locked the door behind him.

Shazeen laughed again and hugged the box to her chest. "This is pleasure."


	6. Morpheus Box

Persia6

I had no use for a woman on her knees in my private apartments. I crossed my arms over my chest and tapped my foot on the floor, though she didn't seem aware of my irritation. She pressed her lips to the lid and made an odd noise, like a kitten mewing. Her fingers caressed the surface as though she cherished this box above all else. I could not imagine coveting something so simple.

"The key," she said without looking at me.

I ignored her and walked the length of the room, turning only when I heard the sound of her anklets jingling as she approached. Before I realized how she gained on me, I felt her hands grab hold of my shirt.

"I do beg your pardon," I said through my teeth.

She clawed at me. "I need it!" she shouted.

I looked from her to the balcony. "The key is on the table."

Immediately she abandoned me and raced toward the table, but stopped short of reaching the precious brass key.

"Where?" she asked.

My brow furrowed. From where I stood I could clearly see it. "Atop the book."

She plucked it from the table and showed it to me. "This?"

I refused to answer. If she had no idea she held a key in her hand, then so be it. With a sigh I sat on a decorated ottoman and rested my chin against my palm. My prayers for something of interest had been evidentially answered by the devil himself.

"This isn't it." She proceeded to slam the key onto the table and stalk toward me.

I glanced up when she stood several feet away with the box still cradled in her hands. Her pale blue eyes appeared frantic, all hints of her previous elation gone. Alarmed, I abruptly stood and she jumped back.

"I mean you no harm," I mumbled.

Her chest heaved with each breath and she averted her eyes. "The key, it is invisible."

"How so?"

"This box opens for a select few."

"Give it here."

Immediately she wrenched her body as though fearing I would steal it from her. "Never."

"Whatever the contents, it is no concern of mine," I insisted. "Once it's opened, you can have whatever is inside."

"Swear it."

"I swear."

"Swear upon your mother."

My shoulders dropped. "I swear upon the Sultan's life."

This seemed to please her. She gave the box one last, loving caress before handing it to me. She made certain her fingers didn't touch mine, and when I met her gaze I saw nothing but distrust. Slowly I turned the box over and studied the carvings. The top was a depiction of women gathered together, the sides various flowers. The box was sectioned off and I pressed one small square, then another. After several tries, I heard a click.

Shazeen inhaled sharply. "Yes," she said under her breath.

Ignoring her, I turned the box over and noticed the corner was disconnected. Intrigued, I marched toward the lamps and turned them up brighter, then walked toward the nearest chair and tossed the extra cushions on the floor.

With the box in my lap, I pulled the corner off and discovered an empty drawer. With the help of the lamp I peered into the open space where the drawer had been, but it appeared empty. Without thinking I shook the small drawer and heard a rattle.

The discovery made me smile and I peeled back the black fabric secured to the inside and found a long, thin piece of wood rounded at the end.

The latch on the box itself was for a small skeleton key, so I turned the box onto its side and pressed against the bottom, carefully examining each inch until a slender piece of wood fit between two larger panels moved beneath my hand. It didn't jostle nearly enough when I pressed into it, so I slid my finger downward and, as I suspected, the piece came clear off.

I inserted the long reed into the compartment and the box clicked. Out popped a small, brass key, which was held in a small wooden holder.

"Give it to me," she insisted.

With the game over, I handed the key and box to her and sat back.

Several times she attempted to jam the key into the keyhole, but it didn't fit. Frustrated, she looked at me over the box and I sighed.

"Here," I said.

She handed it back and sank to her knees before me, eyeing my work with curiosity.

I searched a good five minutes for another entrance to fit a key, but saw nothing. I squinted at the keyhole and fit my fingernail beneath the top edge, which loosened it. With a smile, I pried it loose and discovered a larger keyhole beneath, which easily accepted the key. With a turn, it popped open and I looked to the woman sitting before me, who nodded in permission for me to proceed with opening the contents.

Inside the black interior was a white thread, which I pulled. The fabric came away in the shape of a skull, and beneath it was a slender piece of metal, thinner than the original wooden key.

"Madame," I said as I handed it back to her.

Her eyes flickered up and she smiled as she accepted the box from my hands, her fingertips grazing mine. The unexpected contact made me pull away, and she caught the puzzle box before it fell from my grasp. Clearing my throat I looked away and pretended I had no interest in what it contained.

She tore the cloth bottom and pulled out a glass cylinder with the thin piece of metal attached. I had never seen a hypodermic needle before, and as she stared at it, I sat forward, my eyes narrowed.

"What is that?" I questioned.

She turned away slightly, rolled up her long sleeve, and inserted the needle into the crook of her arm. Almost immediately she began to giggle and I stared at her, having no idea what I had unlocked.

"Thank you," she whispered, though I wasn't sure she spoke to me. She removed the needle from her arm and seemed unaware of the blood streaming down along her forearm. With her head bowed, she sat very still, breathing deeply.

She appeared entranced, and as much as I desired to leave her, I stayed where I sat and watched her smile return.

"The pain is almost unbearable," she said under her breath as she placed the box beside her.

"What is it?" I asked again.

She fell back on the pillows and tossed the syringe aside, which shattered near my foot. "You are the god, precious toy," she said breathlessly.

"God of what?" I snapped impatiently.

She ignored my tone and rolled about on the floor like a cat in heat. "The god of dreams," she sighed.

Preoccupied by her euphoric state, she no longer seemed to notice my presence. I stood and walked away, taking the box with me.


	7. dESIGNS

Persia7

DESIGNS

The night air was cool and I shivered as I padded onto the balcony and closed the sheer curtains behind me. Twice I unlocked the puzzle box and searched for other hidden treasures, but it was empty. I had never seen a device like it, so I studied it intently, fascinated by the hidden compartments and secrets it contained. With each step, I imagined how I would have fashioned it differently and what I would have hidden inside. The possibilities seemed endless, which brought about a surge of excitement I hadn't experienced in many years.

Part of me wanted to disassemble the whole thing and redesign the box, though in my mind I had already devised something entirely new and different.

"You are unusual," Shazeen said in a breathy whisper as she traipsed through the apartment.

"Indeed," I mumbled as I fit the pieces back together.

She giggled to herself and collapsed onto the ground with a heavy thud that made me turn to see if she had lost consciousness. Through the sheer black curtains I saw her resurrect herself and continue swaying about.

"Why are you in Persia, Frenchman?" she asked as she spun in slow circles like a child in a dance troupe learning the steps.

"For entertainment," I said under my breath.

"You do not seem entertaining," she commented.

I glanced over my shoulder at her and considered telling her the sentiment was mutual, but paused when I found her draped in fabric. She blinked at me through the barrier, anklets ringing, breaths unusually hard and fast. A smile crept onto her lips and she swung back and forth like a monkey, testing the rod secured above her head.

"You seem to have entertained yourself," I said.

"You are jealous, toy."

I stood and walked past her, feeling the heat of her touch as she brushed up against me. With a pencil and paper in hand, I returned to the balcony and used the puzzle box to weigh down the top of the sheet. I rested my elbow on one edge and began crude plans for a different box, one of my own design.

Shazeen sat across from me, chin cupped in her hands and feet brushing against the ground in no particular rhythm. Without looking up I could feel her gaze upon me, hear her grunt and sniff, which irritated me to no end. She yawned loudly and stretched her hands above her head.

"Morpheus has come for you," I mumbled.

Her smile widened. "He carries away all pain," she said wistfully.

I held the pencil a hairsbreadth from the paper and stared at the dull tip for a long moment, wondering what the absence of pain would feel like, if even for a moment. I shifted, my movement met by an unintended grimace as I stretched my injured leg.

There had been brief moments when suffering had not been so intense, so engulfing. I thought about my uncle and the violin he had given me. I thought about sleeping beneath the stars, of trying desperately to keep my eyes open to watch embers pop from the fire. I thought of holding my breath beneath the water's surface and the absolute calm of hearing nothing, of seeing the glint of sunlight ripple across the water's surface before my lungs burned and I pushed off the silt bottom, desperate for air. It was a pleasant sort of agony, that second before drowning.

Those moments had lacked pain, yet they had been few. They stuck out in my memory, the brightest stars in the blackest night, yet my vision was clouded. The storm gathered within me, a rumble of names, a crash of terror and physical anguish.

My shoulders hunched, my breath lodged in my throat. No dream could quell what hunted me in the night or plagued my thoughts in the day. There was neither rest nor escape; it was dull in some moments and raw in others.

"You would enjoy it," Shazeen said under her breath.

"I enjoy nothing," I said rather pointedly. When I looked at her, she sat perfectly still with her eyes shut and the same wide smile molded to her face as though she had been set in stone.

"You enjoy a mysterious box rather than the gift you were given." She rotated the brass key between her fingers.

"The key didn't fit," I replied.

She grunted. "You did not attempt to unlock it."

With that, she dropped the key on the table, stood, and returned inside the apartment. Once she disappeared, I finished my plans for a puzzle box containing no lock or visible opening from the outside. A perfect little secret, one that could store away unwanted or coveted objects and be opened only by the one who had designed it.

This would be my godly station.

When my eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, I pulled up my mask, rubbed my face, and yawned. Shazeen had gone quiet and I drew back the curtain to find her asleep in bed—my bed. I sighed in frustration and took my place on the short, narrow wicker couch with a thin blanket and beaded pillows meant for decoration over comfort. I forced myself to stand and added wood to the fire before finally curling up on my left side and willing sleep to take me.

Even with my eyes closed, I felt someone watching, but I was too tired to care. Morpheus would not dare come for me, but I knew who would and I wanted to believe I didn't care.

oooOooo

I woke to the sound of my food tray being slid beneath the door. When I turned over, I found my audience hovered silently over me: the Sultana stood flanked by the twins. Still groggy, I glanced from them to the bed, which was still occupied.

"Toy," the Sultana said sharply.

Head tilted down, I gazed up at her veiled face. "What hour is it?"

"The hour is late," she answered.

Despite the cryptic undertone, I looked at Kamil and almost sighed in relief at his blank expression.

"Where is the box?" she asked impatiently.

"On the balcony."

She turned on her heel and marched away while the twins dashed to part the curtains before she reached the table. I sat up, smoothed my wrinkled clothing, and wandered toward them.

"Intact," she said with a grunt I assumed was cynical expectation.

"I put it back together," I answered as I crossed my arms and leaned against the pillar and soft, cool curtain.

She turned her head, but didn't face me. "You opened the box?"

"Several times."

She motioned to Arden, who picked up the box and held it out to me. I nodded toward the table. "Put it down," I ordered.

To my surprise he did as was asked and my words were met with no protest. While they stood grouped together, I went through the memorized steps and showed them the interior.

"And the contents?" the Sultana asked.

I looked past her at the bed, where Shazeen had yet to stir. "Consumed."

For a long moment she considered my words, then stepped closer and ran her gloved fingers over the designs I had made the previous night. "What is this, my toy?"

"A different design. This one would have no lock on the outside."

She turned the page toward herself and examined it. "This is how you occupied your time for the evening?" she snapped.

I kept my gaze trained on the sheet of paper, unsure of why my use of time angered her considering I had little else at my disposal.

"I did," I answered, my tone just as harsh as hers.

"A child's trinket?" she scoffed.

I stood abruptly, though the twins didn't bear down on me as I expected. "No child would have opened this," I said, though secretly I suspected as a boy I would have easily solved the puzzle. "And my design is far superior to this," I said through my teeth as I knocked the puzzle box onto its side.

She remained calm when I expected my outburst to be met with punishment. Seconds passed and no one bothered to speak or move, which only agitated me further. From the apartment I heard the soft clatter of bells and knew Shazeen had stirred at last, most likely from the sound of raised voices.

"How long would it take for you to build this design?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Hours," I said arrogantly. Other than erecting tents and being forced to repair my own cage, I had done little of the sort, but I would try. No, I thought to myself, I would succeed.

My answer made her chuckle. "Very well, toy. If this contraption meets my approval, I shall commission you for other designs as well."

I looked back down at the sketches, then up at her veiled face. "My designs or yours?"

"Both."

"And compensation?"

She chuckled softly. "Your life," she said simply. "And a place far from my father's harem."

She tapped her fingers together and walked away, saying nothing more until she reached the exit and turned. "I will have materials delivered. Once they are in your possession, you have four hours to build a device which suits me. Is that understood?"

I nodded. Arden held the door open for her and passed behind. Kamil, however, stood beside me. I didn't look him in the eye, but felt his heavy breaths.

"Eunuchs guard the harem," he said softly. "Slaves."

I shifted before he moved to join his brother and turned my face away. Though many eunuchs enjoyed positions of government power and were high-ranking officials, I had no desire to join them. They were considered loyal, as they could not further a dynasty since they could not father children. For the Sultana, castration was not a means of allowing power; it was punishment and nothing more. Alrwady I was a slave.

"Thank you," I said under my breath.

"You are welcome." He paused and cleared his throat. "Erik."

With that, he joined Arden, who eyed him suspiciously, and they vanished out of my sight. It wasn't until I noticed the silence that I realized Shazeen had left as well.

An hour later, Arden returned with materials and tools, and on his heels, a laughing, ecstatic Shazeen. While I made inventory, I knew the Sultana had refreshed Shazeen's chosen poison and left her to distract me.

Once the materials were separated, I stormed into the apartment, grabbed her by the arm, and shook her. "Sit," I commanded. "And if you should provide a heartbeat of trouble while I work, I assure you, Madame, you will never dream again."

She stilled, nodded once, and seated herself across from me at the table where she sat perfectly silent as a statue.

I would be damned if the Sultana's ploy worked.

oooOooo

AUTHOR NOTES: For those of you horrified or curious about why the Sultana continues to threaten Erik with castration, it was a common practice throughout Asia. At around the mid 1800s there were an estimated two million Eunuchs (castrated men), so this wouldn't have been something out of the ordinary. It was not always considered punishment, though few men were seemingly castrated on their own free will and most were surgically altered before puberty.

Also, Morpheus is the Greek God of dreams for which morphine is named.


	8. Creation

Persia8

Piece by piece, my plans formed before my eyes. Sawdust covered the table, which I brushed away before I measured the inside, created marks where screws would be fitted, and placed the sides together to see how it looked.

"What is it, toy?" Shazeen asked. It was the first time she spoke in almost an hour.

"A puzzle with no lock on the outside," I answered.

She leaned over the table. "Then how does it open?"

"From the inside."

This seemed obvious, and I looked up at her, waiting for her to question me again.

She fell silent again as I nailed the internal mechanism to the sides and examined my work. The concept was simple: create an enclosed track where two weighted balls would travel a specific path. With the box's movement, the two balls—most likely a couple of bullets would do—would travel down a course. Once they reached the end, it would hit the latch, set off the springs, and the box would open. Delightfully simple in its design, yet still a complex puzzle box. Unlike the box that had been given to me, there were no clues. One simply had to move the puzzle in the correct order through the maze to unlock it.

It took some time to decide what I would use as the maze for the two balls. Melting down metal was out of the question, so I carved out smaller pieces of wood. I frowned in disappointment, knowing it would take a great deal of time to smooth down the track in order for the bullets to reach their destination. Without that, I wasn't sure it could be completed.

"It won't work?" Shazeen asked.

Her questions only added to my growing frustration. "Of course it will work," I muttered.

"You stopped," she pointed out.

I glared at her from across the table. "I'm thinking."

She leaned farther forward and took the roughly hewn track in her hand. "What does this do?"

Once I explained, she squinted at it and ran her finger over the splintered interior. "I can help," she said. With glassy, reddened eyes she looked at me and smiled. "If you so desire, toy."

There were several squares of glass paper and I pushed one toward her. "Here," I said. "Rub until it's smooth."

Her eyes widened, though I had no idea what was difficult about my question.

"If you don't wish to—"

"No, I will." She laughed to herself.

"This amuses you?"

"Very much so," she replied as she reached for it, the tips of her fingers grazing mine. Her lips formed an enigmatic smile. She eased back into her seat and began brushing the paper across the jagged surface.

We worked in silence for a long time, Shazeen creating the inner track while I smoothed the sides and edges of the box before fitting it together.

"I heard she paid the weight of an elephant in gold for you," she said suddenly. "Is it true?"

I paused from my work and looked at her, though she didn't meet my eye. She rhythmically brushed along the inside and outside of the track, her body jerking with each move as though she had started to dance.

I found myself watching her as I worked, distracted by her presence. I didn't fully realize I had stopped paying mind to my own task until I ran the glass paper over my knuckles and immediately dropped the side of the box.

"Damn it," I grumbled.

Shazeen looked up. "What happened?"

She had an uncanny gift for asking ridiculous questions that needed no answer. I brushed off tiny specks of glass and sucked on my knuckles until the pain subsided.

"Shall I do another?" she asked as she handed back the first two pieces.

I gave her the rest of the parts, fit together the ones she had finished, and pretended to be preoccupied until she finished smoothing down the last pieces.

"These are fresh," she said as I reached across the table for the final piece.

"I beg your pardon?"

She dropped the last part of the maze into my open palm, then reached toward me and ran her index finger along the inside of my wrist, along the healing puncture marks created by the barbed cuffs. "These wounds."

The feathery light touch made me shiver and I pulled away. She looked more surprised than I did and immediately folded her hands, realizing her mistake.

"How did you obtain them?"

"Your sultana," I said between my teeth. Her caress still lingered, like a single note echoing in the still air.

She frowned but said nothing in reply, though I felt her staring at me as I waited for the glue to adhere.

"If she is not pleased by this creation, she will kill you," Shazeen said.

"I'm aware of that," I muttered.

"Are you afraid?"

I looked at the puzzle box in its unfinished state and thought it was ironic I needed two bullets to possibly save my life. The thought made me smile.

"No," I answered.

When I looked up, she had leaned over the table again, her pale blue eyes wide with urgency. "Why not?" she asked.

"What is there to fear?"

She reached for me, but I slid my chair back and stood abruptly, remaining just out of her reach. She gazed at me with pity, which I despised. I wanted nothing from her; I needed nothing from her.

"Pain," she said simply. "There is pain."

I had spent the first twenty years of my life beaten, alone, ridiculed, and feared. Her concerns were unwarranted, and I wondered how she could stare across the table at me and think any different.

"There is nothing she can issue that I have not endured previously," I answered.

Shazeen walked around the table and grabbed my arm as she walked past. Her fingers dug into me, a silent warning or promise, I wasn't sure.

"Do not be so certain, toy," she whispered.

oooOooo

With the box partially completed, I grabbed the breakfast tray, which had been left by the apartment door, and brought it to the balcony. I rolled up the design and tied it with string and left the box to dry on the wide ledge. It couldn't be completed before I had bullets and I wasn't sure if it would be considered finished when the Sultana returned.

Shazeen paced inside the apartment and I watched her for a moment as I picked through the offered meal. Her elation had drastically faded and she paced like a tiger in a cage fully aware of its feeding schedule.

"Eat something," I said, growing tired of her milling about.

She hesitated, but eventually returned to the balcony and took her seat across the table, where I had divided the meal.

It struck me then that no one had dared eat beside me since my uncle. The gypsies always sat at a distance, occasionally including me in conversation as the time passed and I filled their pockets with a good amount of silver. For the most part, however, I was a novelty, and they would no sooner include me than their dancing bichon frises.

When I looked at Shazeen, I wondered what intoxication held her that she agreed to sit across from me, in broad daylight no less.

"You are staring, toy," she said with a giggle of amusement.

"Why do you not cover your face?" I asked brusquely.

She turned her head to the side. "Why do you cover yours?"

I frowned and stared at the cold cup of tea and honey which had soaked into the bread, knowing I had invited her question. "I am a beast," I said coldly.

She giggled again in amusement. "I was wrong," she said. "You are most entertaining, toy."

Her words frustrated me in a way I could not comprehend. I couldn't decipher her tone or her intentions, though I knew I had allowed her insults the moment I invited her to the table.

"What makes you a beast?" she asked. "I have never seen a mere animal create his own puzzle."

I met her eye and ran my left hand over my mask until she finally surrendered and looked away. Uncomfortable silence followed and I cursed myself for my actions. I longed for the days of sitting beside my uncle, of simple yet enjoyable conversation. I missed the brief interactions with the dancer that had concealed me within the opera house—and whom I assumed had no idea I had not only left the theater, but had changed hands against my will.

Madeline and I hadn't spoken in months, since she'd made the transformation from dancer to a wife and mother. Her priorities had changed, and I found myself bored within the confines of the fifth cellar. I needed something else, some form of stimulation an existence beneath the earth couldn't provide. Of course my travels hadn't quite led to what I desired.

More than anything, I longed to feel human, and yet as close as I stood to acceptance—or at least indifference, I destroyed it.

"You are scarred, then?" she asked plainly.

"Yes," I answered.

"Badly?"

"Like the devil."

I froze, waiting for her request, knowing the question on her mind. She would ask to see the beast for herself—and then she would retch and regret each second she spent in my company. Just like the puzzle box, there was no other path.

"Why did you share your meal with me?" she asked suddenly.

"There was far too much food," I answered.

She smiled back and laughed, and I suspected she knew I hadn't told her the truth. Perhaps she looked at me and already knew the loneliness that had plagued me for a lifetime. When she met my eye, I didn't see the hint of pity I had seen earlier. I wasn't sure what she saw, let alone her thoughts. Few had looked me in the eye and offered a smile. Her expression forced my eyes away.

She started to speak, but the apartment door opened and Arden stormed in, followed by Kamil. Arden said nothing, but Kamil walked past him and stared at the box on the balcony ledge.

"You didn't finish?" He sounded appalled, and when he turned to face me I saw fear in his dark gaze.

"It's done," I answered. "For the most part."

"She will execute you," he said, looking from me to Shazeen.

"There are two pieces missing," Shazeen answered casually. She sucked honey off her fingertips and smiled.

"What?" Kamil asked me. It wasn't a question; it was a demand.

"Bullets."

He narrowed his eyes. "Bullets? You mean to kill yourself?"

"It's for the box."

I didn't expect him to understand and my reply didn't seem to quell his anxiety. "You need bullets?"

"Two."

He started toward the door and Arden shook his head. "She will never allow it, Kamil. He has failed."

Kamil squared his shoulders and walked toward the door and looked down the hall. Once he seemed satisfied, he returned to the balcony. "He has not failed yet."

"You are a fool," Arden said under his breath.

"Ask the daroga," Shazeen chimed in. She shrugged and sat back. "He is always armed."

"As am I," Kamil answered. He held out his cupped hand and waited for me to accept the two small pieces of metal. "If you show me how your puzzle works, they are yours to use."

It was not my intention to divulge secrets, but I took a deep breath and sighed. He had offered more than bullets, and if I denied his offer, my life was forfeit.

"Accept," Shazeen urged. She shoved her plate aside and stared intently at me, her lips parted, eyes filled with apprehension.

Even if I had already made up my mind, I shrugged as though her display had swayed my decision. If nothing else, it would keep her from fainting dead at the table. I paused and looked from her to Kamil, who looked equally concerned for my fate. "Very well."

Shazeen clasped her hands and squealed while Kamil sighed as though relieved. Their combined reaction surprised me and in the pit of my stomach I felt an odd sensation. I was grateful for their concern, as unnecessary as it was.

"Tell no one how this works," I said as I stood and allowed Kamil to drop the bullets into my hand. Once I closed my fingers over the small metal spheres, I genuinely smiled. My meager audience waited for the display, and for once it had nothing to do with my face.

Kamil nudged his brother in the side. "Will you keep this secret?" he whispered.

Arden pulled away. "There are no secrets here," he said.

"Arden," Kamil warned.

He ignored his brother's plea, and while he stormed off and Shazeen watched the twins, I quickly finished the box and sealed the front. When I turned around, both Shazeen and Kamil looked ravenous for a turn.

"It needs to dry first," I said.

Shazeen stood on the tips of her toes. "May I try it first?" she asked.

Her excitement over an empty box amused me. "If you wish," I said.


	9. Snake Charmer

Big, Phantomy thank-you to Jax for pointing out some weak sentences. I was so excited for this chapter! Please let me know what you think! ~G

Persia9

Shazeen shifted back and forth, each movement met with a musical note from her anklets. She tried desperately to catch a peek of the box's secret and laughed when I told her it was secure and there would be no hints.

Kamil sat on the balcony edge, his arms crossed and gaze occasionally flickering toward the gardens below. He appeared nervous, and in the back of my mind I knew I should have been aware. If I faced execution, however, this would be the moment I would replay in my mind; the laughter of a woman, a maze concealed within a box, and the bright sunlight playing across the inlaid stone balcony.

I had no fear of death.

I also knew I wouldn't fail.

Twice I went through the movements, shifting the box forward, then to the right corner, tilted it back, then toward the left corner, then down again until the two bullets rested on the inner latch. With that final step, the box sprang open and the inside was revealed.

Unfortunately it was empty.

I looked around the balcony and pulled a large, light blue flower from the creeping vine. Slowly I rotated the stem and the petals seemed to shiver at my touch, as though it anticipated its own demise now that it had been severed from its place along the wall.

Gently I placed it inside the box and stared at its dedicated beauty. Something so fragile wouldn't survive long without light, I thought. Only the truly wicked and grotesque would endure the dark.

"May I?" Shazeen asked. The jubilation in her voice made me snap the lid close.

When at last I handed the box to her, she took it from me with such childish delight that I grunted and shook my head. She raced into the apartment, sat with her legs folded beneath her on the wicker couch and pursed her lips.

At first I thought she had an unfair advantage as she had seen and assisted with the inner workings, but once she held it in her hands she had either forgotten or simply didn't understand the concept.

Slowly she rotated the puzzle back and forth, her head pressed to the side.

"I hear them," she said. "How will I know if I succeeded?"

"The top will spring open."

She truly tried my patience.

She gave a sheepish grin and continued her attempt until Kamil sighed and demanded he take a turn. With great reluctance, she handed over the puzzle and frowned as he began rattling it back and forth. With the grace of a bull, he shook it as though brute strength would force it open.

"You'll break the damn thing!" I snapped. "Move it slowly."

Kamil took a deep breath and tried again, though he was nowhere near opening the box as he titled it forward and backward. I let him bumble with it for several moments before frustration set in—his and my own.

Shazeen nearly threw herself on the box, which I handed back to her simply to save myself from prying it out of her hands.

She stood and held the box out. "Slow movements," she whispered, and with that began swaying as well. I meant to follow the pattern, though after the first three—which were wrong—I stopped paying attention to the box.

With each tilt, she swung her hips back and forth, anklets ringing as she stepped to the side, rotating the box and her body in rhythm. All she needed was the pulse of a Persian drum and traditional tanbur, which I had the pleasure of hearing once while in the opera house. It sounded similar to a lute, though it was used only in certain gatherings. It had not been meant for my ears—and I doubted this display was meant for my eyes.

My stomach tightened, my heart beating unusually hard. Thoughts—coherant thoughts—refused to enter or leave my mind.

She closed her eyes and her body turned into a methodic slither like a charmed snake. I risked a glance at Kamil from the corner of my eye and he seemed unaffected by her display. With a hard swallow, I reached for my throat and realized I had nothing but a loose collar. It bothered me that I suddenly felt as though I could barely breathe.

The box popped open then, and Shazeen stifled a yelp of delight, which startled me. She rose onto the balls of her feet and gasped, then smiled and turned toward me.

"The lid came up."

Unable to muster a word, I merely nodded. So it had….so it had.

She plucked the flower from the box and tucked it behind her ear. When she blinked, the color matched her eyes; a pale, serene blue like the waters near the coast. I had never noticed another person's features so acutely as I had in that moment.

Immediately I looked away. "Close it," I said gruffly.

The click of the latch signaled she had obeyed. She stepped in front of me and silently held out the box.

"Why are you angry, toy?" she asked.

Kamil cleared his throat. "You promised to tell me how it works," he reminded me.

I nodded toward Shazeen. "She will show you."

"But I don't know how it works," she complained.

"You just opened it, did you not?"

She straightened her spine, her shoulders squared off as though she wished to look taller and more imposing. "You did not think I would succeed, did you?" she challenged.

Her expression twisted until I barely recognized her. The look in her eyes, however, I had seen before, as I had worn it many times. She would not settle for defeat nor be thought less of.

"Did you?" she asked, her tone stern, like the threat of thunder in the distance well before there was reason to look for cover.

"What do you care?" I growled in return.

She scowled back at me. "You built it. Why would I not value the artist's opinion?"

I scoffed at her reasoning. Designing a simple puzzle box wasn't an art form; it was merely a task to pass time.

Kamil released an exaggerated sigh. "If neither one of you wishes to say how it works, then I would very much like to solve it on my own."

He had the audacity to take it from Shazeen's hands.

We both turned and stared at him. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Shazeen smirk and knew we both thought the same thing: he would never open it, unless he smashed the damn thing.

We both reached for it at the same time. Being swifter, I grasped it first, though she placed her hands over mine and issued a harsh glare.

"You'll destroy it," I said through my teeth.

"As will you."

If she had known anything about me, she would have realized that there was no such thing as an impasse. Whether she considered it stubbornness or determination, I would not release what was mine. Not ever.

Unexpectedly she shoved it toward me, twisted her mouth in a way that made it look like she bared her teeth, then turned and stalked off.

Kamil took a breath, a look of satisfaction on his face. "Show me."

I muttered the steps, handed him the box, and crossed my arms as he went through the motions. His movements were quicker than Shazeen's, less careful. Within minutes he opened the lid, but didn't seem pleased by his actions.

"A child could have opened this," he grumbled.

"Well, you couldn't until I gave you directions."

With that, he placed the box on the floor and stalked off. Shazeen met him at the door, though when she tried to exit, he stepped in front of her and shook his head.

Her shoulders dropped, and even though I couldn't see her entire face, her expression was clearly one of horror. She put forth a great deal of effort and attempted to push past him, but he threw out his hand and forced her back.

The door slammed shut and Shazeen jumped back. Wringing her hands, she stared at it for a long moment.

My gaze fell to the box at my feet. As quickly as my audience had emerged, they had faded as well. I ground my teeth together and stepped back, furious with what had transpired. I would destroy this damned thing, send it flying through the room in a spray of bullets and splinters.

Each breath came ragged. I balled my hands into fists, my short fingernails pressed into my palms. My vision wavered, such was the extent of my anger. As much as I wanted to scream, my voice abandoned me.

The moment I found the strength to undo my creation, I reeled back and stumbled. Arms wrapped around me, hands grasped my shirt, fists against my chest. I expected a blade at my throat, but there was nothing more than a steady grip and breaths against my back.

"Don't!" Shazeen screamed against my shoulder blades. "Stop it!"

I pulled away and spun to face her, my anger replaced by bewilderment. The distance was too great and though I reached out to steady her, she fell back with a thud and stared up at me.

"There will be not an ounce of mercy," she said, her voice a soft tremble. "Not one. For years."

Her tone sent a chill through me. My chest hurt, ached in a way I had only felt twice before; once for my uncle, the other for a damned dog. Now I wasn't sure why I felt my heart writhe in my chest.

I walked toward her and held out my hand, but she turned away.

Behind me, the apartment door creaked open and I paused, glancing over my shoulder at the black, shapeless mass in the doorway.

"Ah, you have found a use for her, I see," the Sultana said.

I lowered my hand and swallowed, fully aware that she assumed I had struck Shazeen down. Anger burned through me, and I turned to face her.

"It was well deserved," Shazeen said.

She climbed to her feet and teetered toward the couch where she sat at a distance.

The Sultana sauntered toward me, her hands clasped behind her back. "I understand you have completed the box for me." She paused and shook her veiled head. "A gift for me? Left on the ground? How truly inconsiderate of you, my toy, after all the luxury I afforded you."

Her words turned angry, each syllable bitten off.

"I stole it," Shazeen said sharply. "He would not allow me to try it first."

The Sultana stood in silence and considered Shazeen's words.

"Give it to me," she demanded.

I bent, and, as expected, she waited for me to look away. Her blade pricked the back of my neck, a sharp warning.

"Madame," I said, my voice stronger than I had expected.

When she didn't impale me, I rose and she withdrew the blade. Warmth trickled down the back of my neck, but I looked up, hoping I met her eye. She held out her hands, accepting the box in one and placing a hypodermic needle in my extended grasp.

"What is it called?"

I thought a moment. "Snake charmer," I said. In the back of my mind, I could still see Shazeen swaying.

"Very well, then. If you have chosen an animal that produces venom, then you will very much like my bargain. If this puzzle is to my liking, this is your payment," she said. "If it is not to my favor, this is your death. It is to remain untouched until my return. Is that understood, toy?"

"Yes."

She turned, and Arden met her at the door. He waited until she passed through before he met my eye. He gave the slightest shake of his head before he closed and locked the door.

I closed my fingers around glass and metal and took a breath. It felt like my lungs had emptied completely.

"Why?" I asked, my voice a deep growl. "Why did you tell her you stole it?"

There was no loyalty between us, no reason for her involvement. I wanted anger, but for once it was impossible to summon the emotion I knew best. She had nearly sacrificed herself and I wanted to know what prompted her, what madness had led to this.

She didn't move from where she sat and she offered no answer. When I grew tired of waiting I turned to face her, half-expecting pity.

Instead she never met my eye. Lips parted, she stared at my closed fist, her eyes wide and glassy.

"Dreams," she whispered. "And pleasure."

Her laughter filled the room, yet it did not fill me. It was harsh, almost malicious in tone. The woman who had found a simple puzzle a rare delight had vanished.

She laughed harder, louder than before. It echoed through the room and I closed my eyes, knowing there was no reward offered.

There never would be, I realized.


	10. Questioning Shazeen

I have a fictional crush on Persia Kire.

Persia10

Shazeen visibly trembled as she stalked toward me, the bells on her ankles creating harsh, defined steps. "You will share your gift, will you not?" she asked.

"It isn't to be shared," I told her.

She swallowed and clasped her hands. The flower she had tucked behind her ear fell down to her shoulder, then onto the ground. Without a thought, she kicked it aside. It offended me greatly that she had discarded it so easily, this delicate beauty that had survived the dark and was still cast off.

"Just a drop," she whispered. "She will never notice."

"Of course she will."

"Our secret," she promised. "Our small, insignificant secret."

The look in her eye would not be sated by a mere drop. I shifted my weight and took a step forward. "What will a drop do?" I questioned.

"It will save me."

I circled her, switching the needle from one hand to the other as I walked. She tilted her head to the side, body jerking in frantic movements. "How does piercing your flesh save you?"

"It does, toy, it truly does," she breathed, her tone becoming anxious. "I swear it."

"And what precisely does it save you from?" I stepped away from her and headed toward a shelf containing books. She had no choice but to follow me and pursue her poison. It worried me gravely and piqued my attention, this obsession. I cared for nothing and no one and could not imagine something as meaningless as liquid suspended within metal and glass consuming my thoughts.

However, I had not yet discovered my own poison in the shape of a nymph. Neither of us had chosen our obsessions wisely, though that was not the purpose of something entirely toxic.

"What does it save me from? Everything." She offered a wicked smile and closed her eyes.

"You do not understand the meaning of _precise_."

"You don't know the meaning of saved," she said, her tone heated. She waited a moment for me to protest, but I only nodded. "The world comes in such a small and fragile gift. How can it be ignored?"

"How indeed." I clasped my hands behind my back, leaned against the shelf, and lifted a book with my fingertips. I placed the hypodermic needle beneath the book and lowered it into place.

"What would you know of it?" she hissed.

"Nothing at all."

"You want it for yourself," she accused, her face contorted in a scowl. "After I helped you, toy. After I saved you."

I walked away from her then, knowing she still thought I had it within my possession. Once she accepted the bait, I would lead her away from her temptation.

"I did not ask to be saved," I said over my shoulder.

She sprinted in front of me and grabbed my left hand, prying it open like a ravenous animal. When I pulled away, she reached for my right hand, which I opened and showed her.

"How?" she said under her breath. Color drained from her face until her complexion was almost as pale as her blue eyes. She blinked and took a step back. "You possess a great power as well."

It was quite possibly the worst act of deception I had ever managed to pull off, but I smiled still. "The devil has many tricks."

I turned away, hoping to draw her further away from the books, despite knowing she would never find the morphine. She had been too preoccupied with arguing to notice I had hidden the needle. In her uncertain state, I assumed she thought it had merely disappeared—and with her obsession gone, hopefully forgotten.

She didn't follow me as I had hoped, but when I looked at her from the corner of my vision, she hesitated. I paused, waiting for her to speak, but she collapsed into the nearest chair and crossed her arms, sulking like a child.

I walked onto the balcony, moved the breakfast tray aside, and unrolled the blank sheets of paper I had remaining. With the tip of the pencil between my teeth, I sat back and considered what other type of puzzle I would make—if I lived to make another. So many ideas waited to be given a voice.

The sun faded, the sky turning from bright blue to the darkness of bruises. I filled my lungs with air, exhaled, and watched the sun set over the palace. It was a beautiful, cool evening, which I struggled to enjoy. The sound of birds and water trickling from the fountains served as the only distractions.

Dusk had never much intrigued me, as I preferred the company of shadows with the way darkness cloaked and corrected a world of fault and missteps. This evening, however, captivated me.

My mind wandered and I thought of swimming in creeks, of the smell of the earth, of the feel of damp summer grass and rotting autumn leaves. I thought about the acoustics within the opera house and the giggles of chorus girls as they fluttered onto the stage, or the aroma of supper as Madeline brought me a warm meal, always fretting I would starve to death. She had no idea—or chose to ignore the fact—that I could always take what I wanted.

The sky turned from blushes to deep indigo, and I wondered what lay beyond the walls, within the growing shadows over the desert. I wished to see if there was beauty hidden in darkness, undiscovered lands outside of this cage.

My heart beat faster. The serenity I longed for slipping out of my reach like the sun from the sky. I sat up, almost desperate for a final glimpse. The pencil fell from between my lips, followed by the papers sliding from the table, which curled and tumbled onto the ground at my feet.

And then I felt someone at my back. It was startling in how simple a gesture, a mere wisp of fabric, mimicked a soft breeze. I held my breath and waited for complete, utter darkness, for the knife into my spine or across my throat. My heart thudded, my hands balled into fists. The sun was gone completely, the darkness almost complete.

It seemed almost too beautiful an evening to bother with death.

"Why do you wait?" I whispered, taunting her.

No answer came. I turned quickly and felt only the curtain drag along my shoulder. The illusion of fear had been so intense that I still stood rigid; awaiting whatever would strike me down. Eventually.

Shazeen watched me from across the room, her head tilted to the side and eyes narrowed. I imagined she saw a wide-eyed animal searching for the hunter lying in wait.

She uncrossed her ankles, the bells clattering again. Slowly she stood and I realized her intense fit of obsession had been short-lived; my anxiety was still a tremor of madness I couldn't quite shake.

"There was no one," she said, as though she knew I needed confirmation.

It honestly didn't hold an ounce of comfort. My heart still thudded, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as the curtain brushed by once more. I swore I felt a hand brush along the back of my neck and the sensation made me shudder. I felt cowardly.

I knelt and grabbed the pencil and papers, then sat again. My thoughts abandoned me and I sat rigid, attempting to grasp at some fleeting idea. Fear was an emotion I couldn't tolerate. Fear was lack of control, and if I had nothing else, it would be control over my own emotions in my last moments.

Shazeen padded closer and perched herself in the chair across from me. She rested her chin against her closed fist, her eyes tired, her face ashen. I glanced at her, thinking she looked almost dead.

Our eyes met and I saw the concern in her gaze. I disregarded her expression and grunted, having no use for the unwarranted cares of a woman.

She reached toward the balcony ledge and grabbed the key, which she turned over in her hand. Distracting as she was, I put the pencil to the paper and scribbled in the corner; quick, meaningless lines blending and overlapping one another.

The key dropped from her fingers and landed with a clink onto the table. She took a deep breath and exhaled with a shudder.

"Where were you before here?" she asked suddenly.

I paused, but didn't look up to meet her eye. "Paris," I said. That was the last place I had been that I knew for certain. The gypsies took a scattered path to avoid being followed, which meant we traveled throughout Europe on whatever route they chose. The night I had fled had been somewhere closer to Germany, though I wasn't sure exactly where.

"You were an artist?"

I squinted at the scribbled lines. "No," I replied.

"Yet you draw."

I looked up at her, thinking the gypsies kept capuchins that could pass a brush over a canvas. This was no different, other than I was not rewarded with crumbs for my labor. "It has no purpose," I said.

"Then what was your purpose?"

My blood ran cold. I hated her questions and how I felt compelled to answer rather than ignore. "I was a spectacle," I answered softly.

"What does that mean?"

I drew a long, dark slash across the corner. "It means men brought their wives to…view me," I said.

My tone was not as harsh as I had intended, my words pathetic rather than shocking.

Shazeen scrunched her face. "You were displayed?"

The answer refused to leave my lips. I nodded and sat idle, staring at the page, at the blank area just above the gray mass of lines and confusion. I could never reach that clean slate, that perfect spot just above the chaos.

"For a fee?"

I muttered a reply. For six months, more visitors gawked at me than any other exhibit. The gypsies treated me differently when they had days off to enjoy their spoils, which had been earned on my behalf. With the meager allowance I had been given—and the generous one I had started to steal—I had purchased ink, paper, and a violin with which to keep myself occupied. The rest I had stashed beneath wagons, which I found highly amusing as they realized their funds were missing, yet had no idea they literally carried their own loses. It had led to many fights amongst their band of travelers as brothers and cousins swore they knew who in the family stole the funds. No one ever blinked at me.

It angered me that my belongings, as well as nearly four thousand francs, were still in the hands of the gypsies, even if they had no idea. To think all of my careful planning had gone to waste still aggravated me to no end.

"You were viewed…without…clothes?" Shazeen stammered.

My head snapped up, my lips parted in shock. "I most certainly had clothes," I assured her.

Her cheeks reddened, and though she attempted a look of shock, she offered a close-lipped smile. She failed at containing her laughter and covered her mouth with her hands.

"You find this amusing?" I scowled.

"I find you very amusing," she said. "However, I have no idea why anyone would pay to view you."

I considered removing the mask and giving her a show, but she leaned back and nearly tipped her chair over. Once she righted herself, she looked me in the eye again. The woman was irritating to no end and had the grace of a sow.

"I would pay you in gold for your puzzle box," she said. "And your drawing."

"What a waste of gold," I said under my breath.

"Who are you to give worth to a woman's desires or fancies?"

Her words resonated through me; _desires, fancies...a woman…_

I pressed the tip of the pencil so hard onto the page that it penetrated straight through the clean, white surface. Her words riled me, though it didn't feel like anger. Something hotter than rage took hold, though it quickly vanished.

Shazeen laughed again. "Will you answer?" she mocked. "Or are you out of words at last?"

"I am no one," I replied before I pushed the chair back and walked the length of the room.

"You are the little Sultana's favorite toy," she said, keeping her voice low. "An expensive gift she bestowed upon herself. One would think for the gold she paid to purchase you in Europe, she would have bothered to give you a name."

I turned on my heel and looked sharply at her. "I have a name," I said, my shoulders hunched, my jaw set.

She didn't flinch as I spoke. Instead, she sank lower into her chair and casually crossed her ankles. The bells jingled and I tired of their constant clattering. "A real name," she corrected. "Not a toy or the child of the devil."

"Daroga!" I heard one of the twins shout, his voice muffled through the door.

My spine straightened, body tensed as the door swung open and the head of the Persian police stood in the doorway.

"You're still alive," he said, almost sounding relieved as he strolled into the room.

The amount of surprise in his voice alarmed me, but I nodded. Clearly I wasn't meant to survive.

Shazeen flashed a look of disappointment, but made no attempt to greet the Daroga or Kamil, who trudged in behind him, his complexion ruddy.

"So this is where she left you," he said once he looked at Shazeen. He crossed the room and stood over her, taking one hand and lifting up her arm, which he examined before checking the other.

"You will find not a mark," she said, her tone almost bitter.

The Daroga glanced back at me before he squatted next to her. He cupped his hand over his mouth and put his lips toward her ear.

"I can still hear you," I grumbled. "The acoustics within the room are outstanding."

It was an outright lie, but effective. The Daroga immediately stood and brushed his palms along his pant legs. He cleared his throat, looking flustered by my words.

"I meant no offense," he said. "It is my duty to ask questions when one of our own people is stowed away with a…foreigner."

"You have a delicate way of speaking, Daroga," I said dryly. "This _foreigner_ finds it rather flattering."

He bristled at my words. "If you would be so kind, I would like a word with her." He paused. "Alone."

I held his gaze, but Kamil touched my arm and nodded toward the door. "We must walk now," he said smoothly.

He forced me forward and I looked back at Shazeen, who kept her head bowed and hands folded in her lap. It bothered me when she didn't glance up, and I slowed my pace, wondering what the head of police wanted with her.

When we reached the door and stepped into the hall, Kamil chuckled to himself. I eyed him but said nothing as he slammed the door shut. It was darker than I had expected, dark and quiet like a tunnel. I fully expected the Sultana to step from the darkness and state the puzzle box was not to her liking—or that she knew two others had the liberty of opening it before she did. I suspected the latter was a greater insult.

"You have nothing to fear. If the Sultana wanted your head, she would take it herself in a much more elaborate display than this," he said, keeping his voice low. He leaned over me, a smug expression on his face. "Foreigner."

I stared at the closed door and wondered why he thought he knew me well enough to guess what I feared. If my assumptions were correct, I was not the only one in danger. With his words I knew my death would not come quietly; she would make it into a spectacle. At least that was something familiar to me. Cynically I thought it seemed appropriate to die on display.

"Has she opened the puzzle box?" I asked at last.

"Not yet." He took a deep breath. "But I will admit your creation has held her interest far longer than I expected."

I cocked my brow. "Didn't you say it was so easy a child could open it?"

Kamil smirked and took a step forward. "You are brilliant, yet too damned stupid to keep your mouth closed," he said in my ear. "You are fortunate these halls are not always…haunted."

"Indeed," I mumbled, wondering how he knew we stood alone.

Kamil exhaled and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. He turned his head suddenly and waited a moment, which instantly made me tense with anticipation. He may have said we stood alone, but I had my doubts.

"Could you build another?" he asked without looking me in the eye. I stood silent and followed his gaze to see what or who he was searching for, but nothing caught my attention.

"Yes. Many."

"Something…different?"

I grunted, wondering what the point would be in repeating the same design. "Of course I could."

He chuckled again. "Ah, but of course," he mocked. "The little Sultana's toy could make a dozen, each one of greater illusion than the next."

The conversation no longer interested me. I rotated my neck back and forth and stepped away, turning my back to him. It had taken too damned long for the Daroga to finish his interrogation. It was no more than a few minutes, but he had no right forcing me out of the apartments I had been allowed.

"How many have you made previously?" Kamil asked.

I ignored him at first, but arrogance won over frustration. "That was the first," I said proudly. It had been a damned perfect first attempt.

"You are a liar," he accused.

I shrugged, finding his statement flattering. He had no idea what I was capable of creating.

"You don't deny it."

"I am many things," I answered.

He grunted and shook his head. "That's why she's kept you alive."

He reached for my arm but I grabbed his wrist. For a long moment he stared at where I held him, then looked up to meet my eye with an imposing blank stare.

No," I said through my teeth. "I have kept myself alive."

He seemed to appreciate my words and made no attempt to shake my hand away from him. "You make for fascinating company," he said.

I released my grasp and stood with my arms at my side, looking away from him.

Kamil opened the door and shoved me inside. He started to speak, but the Daroga met us at the door and seemed startled by our return. Nadir looked me in the eye and studied my face for a long, uncomfortable moment. Even with my mask, I didn't care for the way he examined me, which was precisely his duty.

"May I ask, what is the mechanism that opens the puzzle box?" he asked.

I considered his question. As the head of police, he could have very well beaten or tortured an answer from me, though he chose respectful means of questioning.

Unaccustomed to his techniques, I wasn't sure how to respond. A question forged in kindness must have meant he expected something more of me.

"An elaborate series of steps," I answered at last.

It irritated me when he grinned back. "Involving two bullets?"

I merely nodded.

"Who gave you two bullets?" he questioned.

I rolled my tongue along the inside of my cheek. "A man who refused to give me his gun."

"Intended as a threat?"

"To one's intelligence, perhaps."

This made him chuckle. "Very well."

He stepped past me, and I caught sight of a deep purple curtain draped over the long mirror set within the wall. The ties served as ropes to hold it into place along the top edges. I studied it a moment before turning my attention back toward the Daroga.

He knew my question without me ever asking. "A simple mechanism to avoid a series of complicated events," he said before he walked out.

Kamil lingered a moment longer.

"You told her how it works?" I asked.

He stood no more than five paces away and kept his voice low when he spoke. "He didn't ask me."

I started to turn toward Shazeen, but Kamil cleared his throat. "In this desert, nothing foreign survives unless the natives allow it."


	11. Insolence

Persia11

Once they exited, I stood with my arms crossed and studied the curtain draped over the mirror.

Throughout my life I'd had a morbid fascination with my reflection. It was a source of confusion for me as a child, as I felt no different than anyone else until I saw my own face. It was then that I was reminded of why the crowds shrieked with terror, or why strangers wrinkled their noses in repulsion as they dropped bright coins into a Gypsy's dirty palm.

With each passing day I tired of their reaction, of how in a matter of minutes they perceived me as the pinnacle of evil. I was no longer a child when I was cast as the son of the devil in a sideshow exhibit and my patience waned.

Many times I had stood before a mirror, barefoot and in tattered trousers. I stared at my bruised, dirty chest, the scratches down my arms, and the mask covering one side of my face. I would hold my breath and rip the mask away, staring hard into my own expressionless eyes.

Sometimes it was worse than I expected, sometimes I forced myself to believe it was only a face. Regardless, it was a way to punish myself the longer I looked, the more distorted the image.

Deep inside, I felt the person within started to match the beast on the outside.

Shazeen dangled her feet over the arm of the chair and her clattering anklets drew my attention. She offered a weak smile when I looked at her, then swung her legs over and padded toward the mirror.

She pulled down the curtain and allowed the fabric to pool at her feet with a soft _woosh_. Despite standing at a distance, our reflections were captured together. She studied herself briefly, trepidation in her gaze. I had no idea how she could look in the mirror and not be satisfied with the woman staring back.

When she caught me studying her, she looked over her shoulder and smiled briefly, then turned and headed toward the balcony, where she disappeared through the curtains. I allowed myself a futile moment to watch her through the fabric before I turned my attention back to the mirror and took a deep breath.

There was a purpose to the Daroga covering it, but I had no idea what. Yet.

"The air is chilled," Shazeen suddenly announced.

Her voice startled me. "Then step inside," I suggested. Her blatant observations were maddening.

Rather than listen, she pulled out her chair, sat, and took up a pencil. I narrowed my eyes and watched as she began scribbling on the sheet of paper I had previously used.

Shaking my head, I turned and built up the fire. From the corner of my eye I watched her remain on the balcony. As the blaze intensified and the front of my body became almost uncomfortably warm, I considered joining her, but had no desire or use for her company.

Despite declaring the night air cold, she drew for a while, her body hunched over the table, chin resting on her palm. She had an ungodly style and I cringed at the sight of how she sat and held onto the pencil.

I had learned through observation, which extended much further than my ability to sketch. The only true benefit of standing at a distance was seeing the world in a fashion its inhabitance ignored. There were subtle ways to appear well-bred and even well-educated, as I had learned from observing the opera stage workers, costume designers, and maids, who were a combination of imbeciles in rags and geniuses in disguise.

For the most part the well-dressed aristocrats flooding into the theater hid their lack of intelligence behind fine clothing and repetitive but polite conversation. Silence garnered them respect, these little puppets of their social hierarchy.

"Would you teach me to draw?" she asked as she brushed her hand over the page. She looked directly at me when she spoke.

I nodded and realized I had been blatantly staring while deep in thought. "If you wish."

She gave a sly smile as she examined her work and rested the tip of the pencil against her bottom lip. I held my breath and watched her as she looked over her work. Something about her wholly fascinated me, created an ache in a barren place I hadn't noticed before.

"You said you were not an artist," she said. She removed the pencil and dropped it onto the table, which made me abruptly straighten.

"I said I am many things," I answered roughly.

She pushed her hair over her shoulder and considered my words. "Then what makes you a teacher, toy?"

I lifted my chin and crossed my arms, annoyed by her questioning and my lack of skillful silence. "Experience," I replied.

She grunted but didn't turn to face me. "And you are a man of worldly experience? Would you be willing to share this with a woman?"

I turned from her and stared at—of all things—the empty bed with its disheveled blankets. She was a foolish woman asking foolish questions, but this one I couldn't answer. Limitations constantly surrounded me, stark reminders of why I was caged and forced away. Despite my intentions, I was best at observing and a novice at sharing.

A sense of shame hit me worse than my father's hand or that of any other who had beaten me down. Her question seemed to be the sharpest blow I had encountered.

None of what I had seen or done in my brief lifetime was worth sharing. She knew this and chose to use it against me, which angered me greatly.

"You spend a great deal of time in your head," Shazeen observed as she walked back into the room and fanned herself with the paper she had used to scribble her artwork. "Why do you choose silence over speaking?"

"You've said nothing which engages my interest in conversation."

She blinked at me, but in no way seemed deterred. "You should ask questions," she said, her tone oddly soft.

"I suppose you're now hot," I muttered as I crossed my arms and turned away, ignoring her words.

She shrugged and placed her paper fan onto the chair near the fire. She stared at it a moment, then looked at me. "Comfortable," she said. "The fan is unnecessary."

I grunted. There were many luxuries that seemed unnecessary and I lacked most of them.

"You should listen if you have no desire to speak," she said.

I snatched up her artwork from where she'd discarded the paper and carefully unfolded it. In place of a drawing she'd hastily scribbled a note and surrounded it with dark lines. On the back was part of the design for the puzzle box, which she had apparently decided to destroy in favor of her own artistry. The note read:

_Some ghosts see out of you._

I looked up from the note and narrowed my eyes at her. She met my gaze, then peered toward the mirror before staring back at me. Folding the paper, I discarded it into the fire and walked to the balcony, where I gathered up the drawing materials. The key, I noticed, was missing.

I had just turned my back for a moment when the door swung open and hit the wall with such force I was surprised it didn't crack the stone. Startled, I inhaled sharply and whipped around, finding an unfamiliar man with long, black hair storming into the apartments. He paused, his posture imitating a bear at its full height before the beast prepared to charge.

Shazeen sank to her knees automatically and placed her hands behind her head as the stranger stood over her. She saw me step forward and shook her head, rendering me still and silent.

"Worthless little whore," the man said between his teeth.

She bowed her head as the man roughly grabbed her by the wrists and tossed her to the ground. He waited a moment for her to fight or protest, then reached down and grabbed her by the hair.

"Where is he?" the Sultana questioned as she strode through the doorway.

The man paused, still holding tight to Shazeen as she sat with her legs sprawled out. "He is not my concern."

Arden followed behind the Sultana, the box I had created clasped in his hands, his distraught gaze trained on Shazeen as the man dragged her around the room. She made no attempt to struggle, even when he purposely wrenched her back and forth.

"Here," I answered as I pulled the curtain aside and paused just within the room.

The Sultana offered a wave of her hand at the stranger. "Remove her."

Shazeen looked back at me, then toward the mirror before she disappeared without a sound of protest.

"Your gift is not at all to my liking," the Sultana said once the stranger dragged Shazeen away. Her voice was low and harsh, dripping with malice.

I pulled my gaze from the door and studied Arden, who looked remarkably tense. He stood with his head to the side and I knew he was listening for Shazeen to scream or call out for help. He met my eye and shook his head, though the gesture was barely noticeable.

"May I inquire what is not to your liking?" I asked as I glanced at the Sultana.

"It doesn't work, you grotesque imbecile," she said, biting off each word. She held her arms straight at her sides, gloved hands balled into fists. "Did you honestly think I would continue with this petty, childish nonsense?"

I decided if she intended to kill me, I would not meet my demise in silence. Her incompetence was not my doing.

"It doesn't work or you have not yet discovered how to open it?" I brazenly questioned.

She breathed so hard her veil rustled. Beneath her coverings I imagined a dragon ready to exhale fire and incinerate me for my insolence. With a flick of her wrist, Arden stepped forward and shoved the box toward my chest as though he feared it would burst into flames.

"Open it," she ordered.

I looked down at the box and harnessed my erratic breathing, knowing this simple secret was all I had remaining.

"No," I answered flatly.

Arden made a sound of disgust on my behalf, but the Sultana remained silent. I hated that I couldn't see her expression, but I assumed her gaze tore through me as she seethed.

"You refuse?" she fumed.

"Indeed."

She laughed then, her tone wintery. "You will be a pleasure to undo," she said, her voice hinting at delight.

I shrugged. Years of watching performances from an opera box and rehearsals from the high places within the theater flooded my mind. I separated myself from the promise of torture and loosened my tightly held frame in preparation for my role.

"Then the secret dies with me," I said, masking my trepidation.

She didn't move or utter a sound. Behind her, Arden watched intently, his wide-eyed gaze switching from me to the Sultana, the lone audience member riveted by the unfolding plot.

At last she grunted. "Your drawings will betray you," she replied.

"The instructions were destroyed," I answered.

To my surprise, she stormed forward, grabbed the box from my hands, and kicked me in the thigh mere inches from where she had stabbed me. The pain was enough to bring me to my knees, but I swallowed a groan and forced myself upright.

"There is no lock, no key…explain this," she ordered.

"You saw the design yourself," I reminded her, barely able to stifle the throbbing pain coming in waves.

My plan faltered, but I reminded myself of actors forced to trudge on while sheep lowed from the wings, horses relieved themselves on stage, or props and scenery fell—with and occasionally without my childish assistance or trickery. This was no different; I needed to act my part no matter what stood in the way.

She stalked past me and set the box on the balcony ledge. I watched in silence as she rummaged through the drawings left on the table. With an inhuman growl of frustration, she tore the sheets of paper and left them scattered on the ground, then grabbed the box and shook it.

"Flog him," she ordered. "Tomorrow morning at dawn, flog him until he reveals how it opens."

She started toward me once more. "You will answer me," she said, her voice low and trembling with rage. "I will deliver you to the very edge of life and death at dawn. You will writhe and gasp for mercy, beg on bloodied knees for your god to claim you, but you are under my command. Is that understood, insolent toy?"

I held my breath until she stormed past me and slammed the door shut. When I turned, I found Arden hadn't exited. He looked at me and frowned but didn't speak.

"I won't answer her," I said, affirming the decision to myself more than speaking to him.

"Yes," Arden said as he opened the door and walked out. "I know."

oooOooo

Sleep wouldn't find me. I remembered my first night within the opera house, when every unfamiliar noise startled me. I had been too afraid to close my eyes, too untrusting of the young dancer who had guided me into the cellar and promised me amnesty.

"Hurry," she had pleaded as I ran with her down damp, musty paths into the depths of the theater where no one dared to tread. "You can stay here safely for a few days."

I hadn't believed her, but I followed her nonetheless. The first night had felt dismal, like a trap. I waited for the authorities to track me down, to pull me from the shadows and to find and question Madeline. I feared her punishment more than my own, as she was just a girl who had set the beast free.

Days had turned to weeks, which stretched into months. What was intended as a few days became years. I had grown restless in my solitary kingdom, bored by the silence in the deep part of the earth where I dwelled.

I had never longed for the opera house and its jungles of ropes, catwalks, and changing scenery more than in that moment. A world away, I wondered what the actors were rehearsing and if every mishap was presumably still my doing. I longed for simple mischief and a fabled identity. I longed for arguing with Madeline over second acts, her dancers running wild along the catwalk, and the books she brought me.

A cold bead of sweat trickled down my brow as I lay on my side and stared at the mirror. The fire had died down considerably, the room cast in deep shadows. The subtle noises in the background couldn't compete with the voices vying for my attention.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat hunched over, clutching my knees. My leg resonated with heat and pain, my pajama pant leg soaked in fresh blood.

_Some ghosts see out of you._

Shazeen's written words refused to be ignored. I suspected she was either dead or close to it by now and this was the only part of her remaining. Her foolishness angered me.

She should have kept her distance rather than intruding on my life, sat in silence rather than engaging in conversation. There had been many nights while in the company of Gypsies where many men and women sat no more than an arm's length away and ignored me completely. When I was of use, I was noticed, but when their pockets were full and my duty done, I could become invisible. Their ability to shut me out from conversation as well as existence was a difficult punishment to accept.

I wondered if Shazeen was meant to aggravate me or if exiling her in my company was to be her ruin. Perhaps it was both.

I wiped my hand over my face and shuddered. My eyes were dry and heavy, but I stared at my troubled reflection and wondered why I still existed. Perhaps amongst life's miracles there was a need for destruction and misery and it was my fate to fill that lot.

Dawn approached. I steeled my nerves and took several deep breaths, but my heart refused to steady. I had grown accustomed to being hit and clubbed repeatedly, spit on, choked, and kicked. This, however, would be different.

_Not an ounce of mercy,_ Shazeen had said.

I limped toward the mirror and studied my reflection, at the man who had refused to die as a child. This life had served no purpose and I frowned, wanting desperately to be something of use.

Something small and sharp pierced the ball of my foot and I stepped back quickly, squinting at the piece of metal caught in the rug. Three small bells held together on a delicate chain played a soft melody once I freed them from the threads holding them down. With a sigh I put the little bells and chain into my pocket and frowned, feeling a sense of pity for her.

I stood there until the shadows turned to golden light flooding the room and the birds crowded the gardens below the balcony. Long before the Sultana sent her men to retrieve me, I heard the voices down the hall, muffled and urgent.

Like a statue I remained before the mirror, the dark, bloody spot on my pajama pants soaking down to my knee. I undressed and donned dark trousers and a long-sleeved shirt I suspected would be of no use to me. I fit my mask into place and knew this would be removed as well, perhaps the first step in torture.

The door opened, several men entered, and I made no attempt to struggle as they grabbed my arms. The Daroga appeared with them, his hands folded, a worried look on his face. I knew he had come to oversee my torture and death—if death was allowed.

"There was a dancer," I said to him. "At the opera house in Paris."

He nodded once and listened.

"Write to her. Tell her the ghost is well," I said quickly.

Despite my hopes she would forget me completely, I knew Madeline matched me in one trait: stubbornness. If I demanded she stay far from my lakeside apartments, if I instructed she should not return for a week, she would come to me the following day and say she had forgotten something.

I'd never made a remark, but it seemed perfectly ironic how a woman could remember an entire list of dried goods and supplies without writing it down, yet when she was asked to stay away, suddenly needed to return with a shirt she conveniently forgot.

"What is her name?" the Daroga asked as he followed behind me.

"Madeline," I said. "She married a man named Giry."

I hadn't cared for him, though truthfully my assessment was based on seeing him march through the theater as though he owned the damned place. He'd taken Madeline as his wife once he'd served his time in the Navy and decided it was time to start a family. I didn't care for the way he spoke of her, as though she had no purpose in his life other than giving him sons who could follow in his footsteps. I doubted he was pleased with their frail daughter.

"What is her relation?" the Daroga questioned.

I hesitated. She had protected me in my desperate hour, fed me when I thought for certain I would starve to death, and come to me moments before madness took hold. She had braved the corners of hell only I had dared to travel. She had been my only source of company, the lone person who had kept my secret.

"No relation," I mumbled, feeling foolish for wanting the Daroga to contact Madeline. She had a husband and a daughter; I was not her concern. "Just…an acquaintance."

With that, I was escorted toward the prison cells and a barren yard drenched in fresh blood and distant, echoing screams. The vacant courtyard smelled of urine and decay, the high stone walls impenetrable.

Torture awaited. I took a deep breath and swallowed, hoping I had strength enough to die.


	12. The Cat O'Nine

Persia12

There was a dirt and stone ramp concealed by a log fence, which is where I was immediately led once we left the vacant prison courtyard. I searched for the Daroga in a growing sea of Persians, but he had disappeared. I didn't expect to find another familiar face.

No one spoke to me and I offered no words. Obediently I walked along, my hands behind my back, my leg aching with each step as we ascended. Six men flanked me while six more walked ahead, which made me appear as a most dangerous criminal.

It was difficult to believe there was such an ornate display over a simple puzzle box. The matter seemed trivial.

As the sun pierced the sky, I squinted, partially blinded by the light. We reached the top of a platform overlooking a small yard crowded with men dressed in dirty gray shirts and trousers, their hands and feet shackled. My heart raced at the sheer number of dirty-faced men peering up at me and exploded into raucous laughter and cheers.

The smell of unwashed bodies was almost nauseating. I had never seen so many people packed into such a small space and wondered what kept all of these filthy criminals from fighting amongst each other.

They shouted in unison, but I had no idea what they were saying. Around three hundred men all shook their fists in the air and stomped their feet in rhythm, their chains rattling, their voices booming.

I realized that the only thing that kept them civil with one another was their lust for punishment. They had gathered to witness my flogging.

A bell rang from a tower above us and I felt it resonate through me, a single note piercing the cacophony in the pit below. They went silent almost immediately, their obedience eerily impressive.

"It is as the Sultana commands," a man shouted from my right. I started to turn but was nudged in the side, a warning of where I was to look as he spoke. "He who has no soul is to withstand one thousand lashes."

The crowd rumbled, erupting in sections with louder cheers. While I stood and scanned the crowd, the men around me grew more agitated. Without warning they grabbed at my shirt and literally tore it from my limbs with such force that I thought I would fall from where we stood into the crowd. The prisoners below seemed keenly aware of this possibility and fought to stand in front, jumping and clawing at one another.

Bits of fabric were tossed into their greedy hands. My knees were kicked out from beneath me, my hands wrenched over my head and bound as I was held precariously over the edge. I inhaled sharply despite the tight hold they had on my arms and the strain of ropes against my wrists.

Once I was secured, the rope was tossed over a high, triangular beam no more than ten feet above my head and held taut. My ankles were chained to a beam scared with deep gauges and dried blood from the men who had come before me.

The crowd around me stepped cautiously back while I was rotated, facing away from the prisoners below. I stared into the sun still fighting its way into the sky, thankful for companionship.

"You bear marks," a man behind me shouted. "Marks of treachery."

I clenched my jaw. My father mostly hit me with his fists; Ganush preferred his cane, which had left several marks due to the brass tip cutting into me. Most were superficial at best, though twice he had taken a riding crop from his daughter, who was known for her acrobatics on the backs of horses, and beat me for various reasons he felt needed no explanation.

This, however, would be the work of men whose sole purpose was issuing pain.

The flogging started without warning. The blow came swift, a spray of knotted leather and leather tips across flesh. Before I had time to fully register the sting, another lashing swiftly followed and I realized there were two men issuing my punishment.

I balled my hands into fists and curled my toes, bracing myself for another wave of cat o'nines across my back, but they paused, drawing out the agony, allowing a moment for the pain to seep in. Shoulders hunched, I silently counted the seconds until the crowd roared with anticipation.

Two more swift, hard blows sailed across my back. Sharp pain turned to intense warmth and I swallowed, withholding any sound of suffering.

"Four," one of the men said. "Out of a thousand."

The rope above my head was pulled tighter and I swayed back and forth while both men struck me again, this time faster, allowing no rest between the lashes. Against my intentions I grunted, my body wracked with a spasm of pain. I looked down and saw fresh droplets of blood sprayed across the stone ground like a drizzle of rain.

"Ten," the man counted off.

The rope creaked, my body turned like a carcass on a spit until I faced the crowd. They pelted me with small stones and taunts to continue. With the sun at my back, I stared into the distance, the dark clouds still untouched by daylight. I lost track of how many times the whips tore across my back and sides; my only concern was the direction of the clouds and the stars shrouded behind them.

"Twenty-two," the man said, his breathing labored. "Out of one thousand."

The prisoners began chanting and the bell rang again. I felt as though fire licked at my back and shoulders, a twisted, gnarled trail of flames dripping from my sides.

"They wish to view the Sultana's beast," the nameless, faceless man behind me shouted. "What say you? Shall you have a rest?"

He stepped around to face me, a man a full head shorter than me with dark features and missing teeth. He had a thin but noticeable scar across his bald pate, like an equator on a globe.

"Speak," he ordered.

"Are you exhausted after twenty-two lashes?" I questioned, fighting for the words against my tightly clenched jaw.

He sneered at me like a dog antagonizing a bull. With a dark smile playing at the edges of his lips, he played with the knotted leather strings. Blood stained his fingers, which he showed me as though I would find the display intimidating.

The man chuckled softly and stepped back. He spit on the ground at my feet and rotated his shoulders. "As you wish."

He drew back his right hand and let the whip fly, the tips skimming along my chest and abdomen.

The pain was more intense than I had anticipated, my flesh more sensitive and easily torn. When I looked down, it appeared as though some clawed beast had swiped at my chest and quivering stomach.

"That is forbidden," a familiar voice stated from over my shoulder. "You know this, Mohsen."

I turned quickly and found the Daroga at my side, his gaze trained on my bleeding torso. His mouth twisted in disgust and he shook his head.

"You are soft for a criminal, Daroga," Mohsen snarled.

"I am overseeing Persian law," he corrected. "Would you care to question the physician as well?"

"Ah, but he was not summoned," Mohsen replied.

"Heed the law or I will see you standing in this man's place at noon."

Mohsen paused, his nostrils flared. "Man?" he asked with a chuckle. "Is that what you think he is?"

Nadir offered no reply, which was as I expected.

The men turned me once more and resumed, counting out each lash until they reached thirty-six. No longer able to control my body, I shook in violent waves. My head hung forward, saliva dripping from my parted lips.

"That is enough," the Daroga said.

"They are not done," I said, mustering all of my strength to speak as loud and clear as possible. "He still owes me nine hundred and sixty-four."

The crowd grew restless and taunted the Daroga as they hurled bits of rock and dirt toward him. He ignored them and looked me over like a carcass in the market place.

"How much more can you withstand?" he questioned, keeping his voice low despite the commotion.

"A thousand," I said between unsteady breaths.

He turned his head toward my ear. "Five hundred would kill a man," he said. "A hundred would leave you bed ridden for weeks, if not months."

"I said a thousand," I answered through my teeth.

He exhaled out his nose in frustration and took a step back. My mind wandered, thoughts tumbling further from reach with each passing second. With my arms strained above my head, I gritted my teeth through a dozen blows until I dangled, a useless corpse for the crowd's amusement.

"Forty-eight," Mohsen said. "Out of a thousand."

"Out of fifty," the Daroga said.

"She ordered a thousand."

"She said to keep him alive," the Daroga retorted.

Their argument continued, but I lost focus and struggled to keep my eyes open. I was no stranger to pain, but this was different. I had never been torn open before. My punishment had always left bruises, jammed fingers, and sore ribs. My father had hit me with his belt, which left bruises and welts. I had been choked with ropes and hit with a cane, but never whipped with something such as this.

The cat o'nine was a vicious weapon designed for pain. Pieces of metal adorned the ends of the leather strings and served as claws that dug into flesh. This was not a simple tool for being punished, this was a weapon, a means of destroying not only flesh but spirit.

_Not an ounce of mercy_. Again I heard Shazeen's desperate words and knew she was correct. There would be no mercy because I would not allow it.

Nadir and Mohsen continued to argue while the other man holding the cat o'nine struck me several times in quick succession until I lost count. I sucked in a breath, betrayed by my tolerance. I heard the hiss of the leather tendrils against flesh but the sensation failed to register. The means of punishment turned musical; a hiss of leather through the air, a snap against my flesh, and a grunt from the man repeatedly striking me.

"Daroga!" a man shouted, his voice echoing through the courtyard.

The crowd went strangely silent and for the first time, I heard my own labored gasps and feeble moans. Immediately I held my breath and listened, unable to tell where the voice had come from.

Footsteps pounded up the ramp, but I was too weak to lift my head and follow the sound. My endurance had not met my expectations.

"What is it?" the Daroga asked.

The man struggled to catch his breath. "She has opened it."

It took me a moment to realize it was Kamil standing beside me and Arden a step behind. There was relief in Kamil's tone, as though he had been desperately waiting for her to unlock the secret.

Arden shouted orders, his deep voice cutting through the crowd's protest while Kamil snatched away the whips and nodded for Mohen to leave. The crowd erupted in anger, chains clattering and voices raised as fights broke out.

"Unchain him," Kamil directed.

People swarmed around me, iron shackles clattering, the sound of a knife sawing through rope seemed only inches from my keen ears. Once the binds were cut, I collapsed onto the dirt with a heavy thud and pinched my eyes shut.

"Get him up," Arden demanded.

No one dared to step forward and I grinned as I lay with my face smashed into the dirt. They were not so different from the Gypsies.

"They don't want their hands dirty," I said, my voice weak and ragged. "Or diseased."

"Quiet," he ordered as he and Kamil pulled me up by the arms.

"I'm not done," I said belligerently, drunk on a rush of adrenaline washing over the pain. "She promised a thousand."

"Do all men in France speak as much as you?" Kamil said through his teeth.

"How many?" I questioned.

"How many what?" Kamil asked.

"Strikes," the Daroga replied on my behalf. He motioned people away. "Sixty-seven," he answered over his shoulder.

My head dipped forward, my lips trembling and damp with saliva. "Kamil," I said weakly.

He turned and bent slightly, looking me in the eye. "Last words?" he questioned. There was no amusement in his tone, only frustration.

"There is no other man in France like me," I muttered as they dragged me away from the edge.


	13. Under a Surgeon's Care

Persia13

There had never been physical pain quite like this.

Arden and Kamil remained silent as they hefted me to my feet and dragged me toward the palace. The crowd continued to explode in fights and I heard several gunshots, which did absolutely nothing to silence the criminals. I wasn't sure if the shots fired were meant to quell the disturbance or cull the men, but I didn't much care.

My eyes lost focus, the ground a blur beneath my useless feet. Pain rattled through me in vicious waves, rippled up and down my torso with every involuntary move.

I was certain I lost and regained consciousness as I had very little recollection of the long walk down the corridors or fading noise behind me.

"How did she open it?" I questioned.

Kamil asked what I had said, my voice evidentially too weak for him to understand.

Arden grunted. "He wants to know what saved him."

"I asked how she opened it," I corrected, my voice stronger than before.

Neither of them spoke, which only furthered my agitation.

"You told her," I accused, my words directed at Kamil.

They silently delivered me into the apartments and slammed the door shut. Together they guided me into a chair where I sat with my back curved, leaning my weight onto the cushioned arm. I expected them to leave me at once, but they both lingered. Arden stood with his arms crossed and Kamil with his hands on his hips, both whispering to one another.

Once my body registered the extent of damage, the sensation turned unbearable. I grunted, fighting off the urge to cry out or give any indication of pain while the twins were present.

Early in my life, I had learned that by staying silent I kept a part of myself away from my father's cruelty. Physically he could dominate me, but I always attempted to deny him the pleasure of begging him to stop or crying out no matter how much it hurt. On some nights I was successful, though on many more, when I was already broken, I had lost the battle the moment he stomped down the stairs and stood over me.

He would have adored the device used to break me. At last I would have protested in the way he always wanted.

"You'll need to hold him down," Kamil said, keeping his voice low.

Arden nodded. "Do it quickly."

"You intend to kill me," I accused between breaths. Eyes closed, I swallowed, the pain too intense to offer up a struggle.

Footsteps signaled one of them had walked away, but I didn't bother to open my eyes. Blood loss made me light-headed, my senses wavering. Bouts of fever followed by chills rattled through me and all I wanted was to fall asleep and never wake again. I wasn't sure I would make it until they could kill me. God forbid I disappoint them.

"Wake up," Kamil ordered. He shook me hard by the shoulder and flicked his finger against my cheek until my eyes opened. "And you wanted a thousand?" he asked, his tone nervous rather than light.

"Yes," I answered. In a sense I still did, as I favored knowing there would be an end in sight to days and weeks of this endless suffering.

I had no idea how much time had passed, though it felt like hours of simply sitting, paralyzed by agony. Blood continued to stream down my back and from the six distinct wounds across my chest and abdomen. With my eyes slit open, I stared at my trembling hand and silently cursed myself for this show of intolerance.

"You are the only man I have ever seen who seemed disappointed in being freed."

"I am not free," I mumbled. "And I am never satisfied."

Kamil grunted but didn't reply.

"Why did she want me alive?" I asked.

Kamil turned away and snapped his fingers several times, which I found incredibly obnoxious.

"You did this," I said through my teeth. It took all of my strength, but I managed to twist and face him. "You ordered them to stop, to leave me like this."

He crossed his arms over his wide chest and studied me for a moment. His broad face was unsmiling, his eyes narrowed with a hint of aggravation.

"I ordered them to stop," he said at last.

His words failed to answer my question. I desperately wanted him to argue with me, to give me a focus other than the wounds split wide open across my torso.

The door opened again and Arden strode in with several large glass bottles and towels in a basket. I exhaled hard once I realized what he retrieved; they intended to repair me, this body which would never be whole.

Stubbornness prevailed and I attempted to grip the arm of the chair and stand. Teeth gritted, I managed to lift myself no more than an inch or two before I collapsed and felt as though I would retch.

The two exchanged looks before Arden shook his head and strode toward me. "You wish to stand?" he questioned as he pulled me to my feet.

My legs refused to support the weight of my body and I nearly collapsed. He held me up like a puppet with its strings cut and I dangled, terrified by my lack of control.

"Let me go," I said, my voice trembling. Immediately I stopped speaking, appalled by the fear in my tone. I was helpless, at their mercy to do as they pleased.

Arden ignored my request and looked to his brother, who solemnly nodded before he walked around me and stood at my back. Jaw clenched, I stared at the floor while Arden served as an anchor and held me in place.

Towels were placed around my feet before Kamil proceeded to pour clear, bubbling fluid down my shoulders and back. It fizzed against my skin, turning white as it entered the wounds along my chest and stomach. It stung, but not nearly as bad as I expected from the hissing sound it made as it bathed the open wounds.

"Thank a fellow Frenchman," Kamil said quietly as he doused me in hydrogen peroxide.

"How long?" Arden asked.

"Five minutes should suffice."

Arden 's grip tightened and I heard Kamil take a deep breath.

"Ready?" Kamil asked.

I wasn't sure if he spoke to me or his brother, but Arden nodded and widened his stance, which distracted me as I tilted with him. I didn't notice Kamil grab my left arm until I felt the sting of a needle into my vein. By the time I shook him away, he had emptied the contents into my bloodstream.

"There," he said.

They eased me into the chair again and I began to shiver, my flesh damp from the cleaning agent and trousers soaked as well. Several minutes passed and I felt as though my mind and body stretched, the tight coil of pain easing.

"What did you do?" I questioned blankly.

"I showed you mercy," Kamil answered, his voice low. He draped a towel over my shoulders, though it provided little warmth and not a shred of comfort.

"You are a physician now?" I asked dryly, still dizzy with pain.

Kamil pulled up a wooden stool and sat beside me. He inhaled sharply and rubbed his face. "I was always a physician," he replied. He paused, his lips pursed as though he weighed his words. "I was a surgeon. In another life time," he said hastily.

Arden cleared his throat, but his brother ignored him.

"She doesn't care about this," Kamil said to his twin. He kept his voice low when he spoke. "Her eyes and ears are elsewhere."

"A surgeon?" I questioned, my voice still weak.

"Keep your stories to yourself," Arden warned.

Slowly I relaxed, numbed by the morphine. It was a pleasantly odd sensation, this sudden lack of pain both inside and out. My breathing evened out, tightly bunched shoulders finally dropped. Thoughts no longer raced through my mind, though it didn't concern me.

"Learned under my father's watchful eye," Kamil continued wistfully. He motioned for me to bend forward, then began blotting my torn flesh with a rag. It smarted, but the nauseating pain had dulled. "He served the Shah of Shahs for many years."

The aching inside numbed, the beast within momentarily quelled by the elixir. I closed my eyes and felt as though I were suspended, cradled by an unseen force. It reminded me of floating on water, a perfectly serene feeling.

"I think I can lessen the appearance," Kamil said as he leaned over me.

I bent my head forward and took a deep breath, feeling the pull of my skin as my lungs expanded. "Of the scars, you mean to say," I said, though my words sounded jumbled even to my own ears.

"Yes," he answered.

Not all of me had managed to relax. I felt my breath catch, my heart thudding harder. My tongue, however, felt loose and submissive. "All of them?" I asked hopefully, desperately.

"The ones to your back," he answered, a hint of regret in his voice. "And to your chest and stomach as well, I would think. They are fairly insignificant, almost superficial from what I could see."

I was glad for him standing over me as he couldn't see my face twist and unshed tears prick the backs of my eyes. The most significant scars would be left untouched, as not even a physician would put his hands on the marks to my face. I blinked several times as realization knifed through me. At last, I forced myself to nod and swallowed hard until I managed to cease my sniffling.

"It will take a few weeks of rest," Kamil offered as though it would be any consolation. "The worst of them."

"The worst are not on my back."

He cleared his throat. "They have the potential to kill you if left untreated," he said flatly. I expected as much of an evaluation from a physician evaluating a corpse.

"The scars are of no concern," I growled, my hands balled into fists. "Leave it."

He didn't reply and I said nothing further. The effects from the morphine could not be denied and I wanting nothing more than to lay on the cool marble floor and fall asleep.

"He's going to fall out of the damned chair and split his head open," Arden snapped.

The sound of his voice roused me and I sat up suddenly. Disoriented, it felt as though my mind swished within my skull, the world around me moving rapidly. I gasped for a breath and gripped the arm of the chair to secure myself.

"Easy," Kamil said.

In my clouded state, I barely registered the two of them lifting me to my feet and moving me toward the bed where they laid me face-down.

"Leave him," Arden said. "He'll survive."

If I had my wits about me, I would have angrily agreed and ordered them both out, but the morphine had a lulling effect on me. Emotion threatened to pour out, my thoughts and feelings drunk from the pleasant sensation. I didn't want to be left alone, to die like this. Desperately I wanted someone with me, but had sense enough to keep quiet.

"I can do this," Kamil said firmly.

"What are you doing?" I asked with my face partially buried in the pillow.

"As much as I can."

"Why?" I demanded as I writhed in bed, attempting to turn onto my side and face him.

I never knew if he answered. I passed out cold, and when I woke he had stitched me up and given me a second dose of pain relief. My mind was still not my own and both my left and right arms bared bruises from the needle piercing the inside of my elbows.

My mask had been removed and that, above all else, angered me.


	14. Redemption

Persia14

Kamil breathed like a damned horse, which was the only indication that I was not left alone. The room was dark and cool, the scent of blood and some pungent, unidentified odor in the air.

My body ached, my mind still not completely tethered. The pain seemed dull, but still noticeable. Shamefully I wished for another dose of morphine, for the emptiness inside to be filled with a different kind of nothingness.

"Why do you stay here?" Arden questioned. His voice startled me, kept me perched on the edge of consciousness.

Kamil didn't answer for a long time, ignoring or evaluating his brother's inquiry. The only indication he remained within the room was his harsh breathing.

"It's my duty to inspect my work," he said at last.

_His work. _He was evidentially the Persian da Vinci.

Arden grunted, echoing my sentiment. "Your work?"

"Where else would I go?" he countered.

Their conversation made me wonder if the Sultana had paid me a visit yet. I doubted she remained at a distance, unless she had discarded me for a new toy. My thoughts slowly started to align as I remembered the puzzle box, my punishment and after care…Shazeen.

"You think he's different than the others," Arden challenged, his words drawing me away from my own thoughts. "But you know as I do, she always picks the murderers."

I held my breath and stared at the far wall, my eyes slit open. He knew nothing of my existence, of what I had experienced before being delivered to their palace door.

"Yes," Kamil replied. "She picked us as well."

"That was different," Arden snapped. "She favors men without conscious, without a care for others. Look at him. He doesn't care for his own life, brother, why would he be concerned with others?"

It irritated me to hear Arden speak as though he knew me. None of them knew me, not a single damned person in all of Persia knew me.

"You think you know his conscience?" Kamil asked.

"Do you?" Arden shot back.

Kamil chuckled. "Ah, yes, you see yourself as removed, don't you, Arden?"

They both fell into silence, Kamil still breathing heavily, Arden virtually unnoticed.

"I didn't choose this," Arden growled after several long moments in silence.

"Do you think he did?" Kamil questioned. "Simply boarded a boat on his own free will to entertain her?"

His remark struck me as quite unusual, his words bitter. He seemed to be as much of a slave as me. I wondered how he had come into the Sultana's services—and what purpose he served, other than being an oversized brute.

"You," Arden seethed. "You are the reason I stay. Do not ever forget that, Kamil."

"Then you may leave," Kamil answered casually. "You have helped me enough."

Arden grunted. "Helped? Do you know how it pained me, how it continues to haunt me each time I…" He paused and made a sound of disgust.

"By all means, continue," Kamil offered.

"He's awake," Arden said gruffly.

"He's been awake for a while," Kamil replied, seeming amused.

A chair scraped against the stone floor and I assumed this meant Arden stood. A moment later the apartment door opened and slammed shut. Kamil inhaled sharply, then stood and placed his hand on my shoulder.

It wasn't until he touched my bare flesh that I realized a thin, waxy covering like a very large bandage covered my back and stretched around to my sides. I jerked when he peeled back a corner, but he pressed on my arm as though this would reassure me.

"Stay still," he ordered.

"What is it?" I questioned, still attempting to sit upright, despite the roar of heat and pain suddenly rising up from within each nerve.

"I said stay still," Kamil snapped, this time with a hard push to keep me in place.

My heart beat wildly, my body still too weak to do as I wished. Eyes wide, I froze as he forced me to stay on my side while he examined the wounds.

"This keeps the injuries moist, which promotes healing," he said at last. "When they dry, the flesh rises up and it looks almost like tree roots emerging from your skin. This will allow your flesh to relax a bit."

I said nothing in return.

"The stitches will stay in place another week," he said. "By then you should be able to walk again."

"Another week?" I questioned.

He fully removed the bandage and walked around the bed where he discarded the bloody section of muslin into a refuse bin. "Yes, another week," he said without looking at me.

His statement alarmed me. A week had passed and I had absolutely no recollection of what had happened. I glanced at my outstretched arm, the crook of my elbow black with bruising. I had no idea how many times he had administered another dose, kept me just outside of my own mind.

"How is the pain?" he questioned.

"I do not need to be drugged into submission," I said through my teeth.

"Submission has no bearing on administration," he replied. "Most of the morphine is out of your system by now, I would wager. To stop completely now would have adverse effects."

Adverse effects were of no concern; I wanted to know the effect. I wanted feeling to return, for control—as much as I was allowed—to be mine.

Rather than argue, he returned to his place behind me and began shuffling various, unseen objects around. The pungent odor became stronger and I took a deep breath. Stomach tightened, I attempted to glance over my shoulder, but wrenching my body created such sudden agony that I immediately froze and released a groan of sheer agony.

"If you wish to sit up for a moment, wait until I have covered the wounds."

Teeth gritted I trembled, more out of discomfort than rage. My heart raced and I once again attempted to move. I would not be at his mercy or a canvas for his work.

"You are a stubborn, French ass," he said under his breath. He dug his fingers into my shoulder and effectively kept me still. I swallowed hard and concentrated on my ragged breathing until the fresh, cool muslin was draped over my back and secured with skin glue.

"Here," he said gruffly as he walked around and held out his hand. "Sit up."

Reluctantly I accepted his outstretched hand. He gave a single nod and warned me it would hurt, but I ignored his words and tightened my stomach as I swung my legs over the bed.

The ordeal made me light-headed, my vision blurred and dotted with bright points of light. Nostrils flared, I gripped my knees with my palms and whimpered, stifling a scream bottled in my throat.

"Leave me," I ordered, barely able to maintain composure. I feared he would mock me, take advantage of my weakness.

He poured a glass of water and shoved it toward me. "Drink," he ordered.

Though I had no desire to be obedient, my throat was dry as sand. I drank deeply, tasting the sweet, cool water on my cracked lips. Without looking Kamil in the eye, I held out the glass and waited for him to refill it.

Neither of us spoke as I finished a second glass of water and stared at the floor. Dark speckles of dried blood stained the smooth stone in a path leading from the chair where I had sat a week earlier to the bed where I had been sedated and at his mercy. I wondered if he truly intended to fix me or if the Sultana had ordered me marred beyond recognition, a torso to match my beastly visage.

"I never showed her how it opened," he said quietly as he took my empty glass.

With my head still tilted down, I lifted my eyes and stared at him. "The puzzle box?" I questioned, my breathing still horribly erratic.

"Yes," he answered. "I made a suggestion…or two."

"Why?"

"You overheard our conversation a moment ago," he reminded me.

I glanced up and met his eye. He offered a smile before he turned away briefly and pretended to study the wall. There had to be a reason why he stayed, some gain or benefit he sought. Friendship, sympathy…they were not ideas I entertained. Friendship was impossible, sympathy I loathed.

My flesh began to tingle, the sensation cool and welcomed. I sighed, relieved that the pain had subsided, if only for a moment. Kamil turned his attention back to me, noticing the change in my posture, the way I relaxed and my breathing slowed. He nodded in approval.

"You are a murderer," I said through my teeth. If I was to be weakened physically, I would maintain my belligerent nature. "No different from me."

"How many have you killed? How much blood is on your hands?" he challenged. "Not as much as she assumes."

I kept my eyes trained on my right hand, which still clutched my knee. My breaths were short and quick, each one drawn in and exhaled without an ounce of control. "What if I asked the same of you?"

Kamil shifted his weight. "There is blood on my hands, yes," he admitted without remorse. "However, the patients I was given were not meant to survive."

My gaze shot up to meet his. I looked from him to the empty glass in his hand. "Such as myself."

He shrugged. "Perhaps."

"Then you disobeyed the Sultana?" I asked.

"No, actually, I obeyed perfectly," he responded. His hint of arrogance irritated me. "You were ordered flogged for your insolence, I was ordered to stay beside her while she continued to entertain herself with your creation."

"After all the trouble I went through, I do hope she enjoyed it," I said dryly.

Kamil grunted. "She entertained herself much longer than I expected."

"Ah, that certainly lightens my heart," I mumbled.

He lifted his chin and looked down his nose at me, clearly agitated by my comments. "Admittedly there were some suggestions on my part, however, I didn't open it on her behalf."

I doubted she would have allowed such assistance.

"Once she opened it, she requested you be removed from the prison yard if you were still alive."

His manner of speech was matter of fact, as though he could have easily been speaking of the weather instead of how he had prevented my death.

"What if I had died?" I questioned.

"Then you would have been replaced," he answered as though it were obvious.

"When will you and your brother be replaced?"

His face darkened and he grunted. He stared at me for a long moment, then turned and walked away from me without reply.

Unable to lie down unassisted, I sat miserably alone, my body still throbbing in pain. I pinched my eyes shut and held my breath a moment, noticing how relaxation seemed to lessen the discomfort. Perhaps my desire to argue increased my own agony.

"What do you gain?" I asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I asked what you gain?" My shoulders hunched and I drew in a sharp breath.

"Gain? By being here?"

"Yes." I ached terribly, though it was not exclusively physical.

I wondered when Madeline would receive my message the Daroga had sent her. I wondered if it would bring her peace or if she would continue to worry for me. More than anything, I wanted to know if she still thought of me, if she still cared for me. I knew without a doubt that even if I survived this injury, if infection did not claim me, I would never see her again—or rather, she would never see me again. I would not allow it.

"There is nothing to gain." Kamil returned and stood over me. His expression was stern, his small eyes cold and unfamiliar.

"Then you are a fool," I replied harshly.

He didn't argue. "I have lost freedom, I have lost friends, and I have lost dignity," he said without a hint of emotion. "Those will never be recovered."

"What more will you lose being here?" I asked.

"There is nothing left to lose," he said, sounding very matter of fact.

"Then you act out of indifference?"

He paused and considered my words. "Why do you assume all actions desire benefit?" he questioned.

I immediately looked away from him, refusing to believe anyone would act out of simple kindness. I was not one for charity. "What do your actions desire?" I inquired.

"Redemption," he said.

"Redemption?" I mocked. "From aiding the devil?"

Kamil looked me over, stared through me with such intensity I held my breath. "I have met the devil—I have been the devil, Erik, and you are not him."

I drew in a breath and stared at him, challenged his words with a glare. Within seconds he forced me to look away and I stared at the floor, shaken by the look in his eyes.

"Now lie down and rest," he ordered as he held out his hand, his demeanor turned pleasant once more. "The sultana will return by tomorrow evening."

Without a word, I accepted his outstretched hand and grimaced as I eased onto my side. I waited until I heard the door shut and the lock turn before I took a shuddering breath and closed my eyes.


	15. Standing Alone

Persia15

Hours passed in complete silence and utter darkness. Not surprisingly I had nightmares of my father and the prison in which my parents kept their only child. The memories were fleeting, small glimpses into my past, but significant and wrenching nonetheless.

I wasn't sure what was worse; dreaming of pain or waking to the sharp sensation of agony. For many years, I had done both.

The darkness would end soon, the birth of a new day bringing the Sultana to my apartments once more. As far as I knew, she hadn't witnessed my flogging, though after a week of being incapacitated I had no idea what she had seen or done.

I sincerely doubted she had left me alone. Even if she had not paid a visit herself, I assumed I was in the forefront of her thoughts. I wondered if my survival impressed or infuriated her—and what she would do the next time.

_Not an ounce of mercy_.

The comfort of mercy had eluded me for some time now. Physically, at least, I couldn't bear much more than what I had received, though I would never confess such weakness.

Again I thought of Madeline, her voice lingering in my mind as she called to me in the deep places of the earth, in the shadows I forbid her to visit. In one instance she feigned perfect obedience, but she was sly and had always drawn nearer than I realized.

As I lay on my side, I felt my body on fire, my breaths shallow and labored. I wished I had never left the opera house. I wished I had listened to Madeline. I could only imagine what she would have said if she had known where I was and what had transpired.

Her voice became clearer in my mind, stronger with each passing moment.

"Erik," she said sternly to me, her voice in my head. "I told you it was cold out. You should have stayed at home."

I grunted, my eyes rolling to the back of my head. There was no home for me, I told her, though the words never left my lips. Fire raged beneath my skin and I forgot what the cold nights of Paris felt like, how the snow blanketed the vacant streets, how it looked on a perfectly dark night, each flake cast down from the gray clouds low in the sky. There were nights when I stood on the rooftop—closer to God than He would ever want—and watch the city streets. Those nights I did as I pleased, roaming the dark on my own accord.

I grasped the bed sheets in my fist and attempted to turn onto my stomach. Like an animal I grunted and writhed, consumed by heat and endless pain. The morphine had long since worn off, each nerve in my body magnified.

"You will get yourself killed," Madeline said, her voice high-pitched and soaked with anxiety.

"Will I?" I questioned weakly, though I expected no answer.

In the midst of fever and delusions, her words fueled my determination. I wished to prove her wrong—even if she wasn't really there.

Madeline had once said it was impossible for me to furnish my old apartments completely on my own, yet one by one, piece by piece, I had managed to swipe each candlestick, pillow, chair, and dish from the managers, the divas, and the unsuspecting dancers. Within six months, I had done precisely as she said I could not. She'd been speechless when she saw my home—and her silence was perhaps a greater feat than the furnishings.

"You are a most stubborn creature," she had marveled. "Stubborn and disobedient."

I had taken her words as a sincere compliment. Though she hadn't admitted to me in words, her expression told she was greatly impressed.

I closed my eyes, hugged the cool pillow to my chest, and saw her there wringing her hands, her face pale and features pinched. She wore the same expression each time we parted ways, a most unwarranted, worried look.

She faded from memory, and even though I understood she had not been real, her abandonment angered me. Everyone I had ever known, everyone who had entertained the idea of friendship, had left me.

I cursed all of them.

Exhausted, I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing until I dozed again. In the distance I heard voices and struggled to move, but lack of sustenance left me weak.

The apartment door opened, though no one spoke or gave any indication that they came near. I attempted to look over my shoulder, but couldn't manage to stretch far enough.

My heart stuttered. She had come for me.

"He's awake," I heard Arden say. "Squirming about, as usual."

"Oh, be silent for once," Kamil snapped.

His voice came as an unexpected relief. I laid still and exhaled, waiting for him to examine the wounds and provide a distraction from the silence.

"Turn up the lamp," Kamil ordered. "And Daroga, bring me fresh water, if you would, sir."

My breath caught. I hadn't expected the Daroga to return.

Kamil stood over me and rubbed his hands together. "Looks better so far," he said to himself.

"How can you tell without removing the bandages?" I questioned, skeptical of his medical skills.

"The blood hasn't soaked through," Kamil answered jovially.

"Best damned news all day," I muttered.

Arden stood beside him, arms crossed as his gaze bore through me.

"The wounds are no longer draining as they were yesterday and earlier today," Kamil continued. "The puss has turned clear, which is a very good sign the infection is no longer running rampant."

"Rampant?" I echoed.

"The worst of the injuries seem to have closed. You are a fast healer, Monsieur."

On an empty stomach, the thought of bleeding wounds and draining injuries sickened me. His butchering of a single French word also turned my stomach. I wrinkled my nose and avoided all three men within the room, my gaze focused on the floor until the churning in my gut ceased.

"What do I owe for the pleasure of a full house?" I questioned at last.

Kamil peeled back the dressing while Arden stood over me, his gaze flickering between me and the door. I presumed he expected someone else to enter.

The Daroga was first to answer. "I needed to see the wounds again for myself," he said.

Again. He had visited before, when my mind was not my own. My jaw clenched as I wondered who else had the liberty of seeing me on exhibit.

"Daroga, I do not believe I avoided your complicated series of events," I said weakly, my words slurred.

"No, I'm afraid you did not," he agreed, still standing out of my sight. I heard him rifle through papers. "However, Mohsen will answer for the severity of this punishment."

I wanted to ask how the Sultana would answer for ordering such punishment, but Kamil knelt on the bed behind me and I braced myself, knowing full well all three men examined me.

Hands balled into fists, I waited for the show to begin.

Kamil fully removed the dressing and grunted as he pressed his fingers along my shoulder blades. The pressure hurt like hell and I gritted my teeth, but didn't say a word. He exhaled hard and mumbled incoherently.

"What's wrong?" Arden asked quickly.

"Do you feel that?" he asked me, ignoring his brother's question. Without giving me a moment to respond, he dug his fingers into my spine.

"Every bit," I answered, my voice strained.

"Sharp or dulled?"

"Sharp as a knife," I said through my teeth. Blinding pain ripped through me.

"Good." He seemed quite pleased. "I feared nerve damage."

"Perhaps next time," I said under my breath, irritated by his means of garnering answers.

"Your skin, however, is fevered. You are not out of harm's way yet."

He stepped away, leaving my back exposed and giving my raw flesh a moment to breathe. My skin tingled, goosebumps rising along my bare arms.

"Here, sir," the Daroga said.

His formality piqued my interest, though I suspected he was being respectful toward the former physician.

A moment later, Kamil placed a cool, damp rag across the back of my neck and my shoulders. The sensation made me exhale softly, the cool relief almost more than I could bear.

"Better?" Kamil asked.

"No worse," I replied.

He grunted at my response. "Ah, but of course," he said, clearly amused by my answer. "You should be able to stand on your own within the week," he said hopefully.

"A week?" I echoed incredulously.

"A week is perhaps too soon," he mused to himself as he removed the rag. "Still, you should attempt to sit up again. You need your blood to circulate."

I fully intended to do more than merely sit up.

"And food," he added. "Sustenance would do you well."

I made every attempt to sit up on my own, but my legs were weaker than I expected, my head still swimming. Kamil allowed me to flail and struggle for only a moment before he stepped in front of me and shook his head.

"Come on, then," he said as he held out his hand.

I sat upright and pressed my palms onto my knees. The breath lodged in my throat refused to move, the pain overwhelming. I shivered despite feeling as though my flesh were on fire, my teeth chattering. A week had passed and the pain was still worse than any I had felt before. Either the Sultana was a master of issuing torment or I had become weak.

Three sets of eyes stared at me, the Daroga and Kamil filled with grave concern, Arden with indifference.

"We should leave," Arden said suddenly.

Kamil nodded toward the door. "I will once he is fed."

The Daroga looked the twins over. "Prisoner care is beneath my sanction," he offered. "Consider his care my orders."

"Was, Daroga, but not any longer," Arden argued.

"After today, she will see what little control she has," the Daroga grumbled.

Kamil exhaled and knelt at the end of the bed. He fished through a wicker basket filled with towels and amber glass bottles until he produced a chunk of bread the size of my fist wrapped in muslin.

"This is all I have," he said apologetically. "I'm afraid I didn't consider they were no longer brining meals here."

"I was supposed to die," I answered plainly.

He held out the bread, his eyes trained just above my skull. "There is no one else in this wing," he explained.

"You've been overlooked," Arden said smugly.

"How comforting," I sneered.

"You were not able to eat," Kamil corrected, glaring at his brother.

"Then she does care?" I asked dryly. "Touching."

"Take it," Kamil ordered, growing impatient with me. He flashed a glance toward the door, then turned to me and scowled.

I snatched the bread from his hand and took a greedy bite, hunger outweighing stubbornness. With a clay mug filled water in one hand and a stool in the other, the Daroga made his way toward me and sat in silence. He cupped the mug in his palms and offered me a drink once I finished eating.

"Thank you," I said, averting my eyes.

The Daroga nodded. "How long did you travel?" he questioned.

I looked at him briefly, wondering what sparked his interest in my life. Duty, I assumed, prompted his question. "On and off for six years," I answered. My stomach still growled.

"How did they find you?" he asked.

I took a drink to avoid answering. "Who?" I asked, though I knew damned well.

"The gypsies."

His tone was virtually unreadable, which I assumed made him perfect for his occupation. He presented himself as sympathetic, an allied force to be trusted.

"They didn't," I said, imitating his casual speech.

He sat back and clasped his hands, mulling over my words. "You went on your own accord, then?"

His questioning irritated me as I had no desire to think in terms of willingness or a forced hand. The first time they had stumbled upon me and I had not resisted. There was nothing more to tell of my first encounter.

They had kept me—or rather I hadn't escaped successfully—for just under three years. Most of them had been courteous but distant as the months stretched by, aside from Dragos, the man with silver beads in his beard and wild, cruel eyes. He wanted a spectacle every night and would beat the smallest poodle to the largest elephant if they didn't perform as he saw fit.

We had many unpleasant encounters.

Unfortunately for Dragos, a kind-hearted little dancer hadn't approved of his techniques. In the days following my escape I had thought him dead, but Madeline tore a scrap of newspaper and stuffed the article into my hand showing me otherwise. She had seemed relieved, though I suppose she had no desire to be linked as my accomplice.

When I failed to answer, the Daroga rubbed his nose and sniffed. "You were of what age when you joined them? Sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Thirteen," I answered. The second time around I had been in their company for less than six months.

His eyebrows shot up. "You must have learned much from them."

Learned seemed generous. I had observed and retained some useful information. Thankfully they had underestimated my quick hand and sharp intellect. They also had no idea I understood Romanian and Hungarian.

"Rather than ask me petty questions, why don't you ask precisely what you wish to know, Daroga?" I snapped, my patience waning. "I am exhausted and would appreciate a more direct approach."

Arden sighed loudly.

The Daroga ignored him and nodded at me. "What techniques did they teach you?"

I studied my empty cup of water and mulled over his inquiry, wondering if he sought answers from his own inquisitive nature or if the Sultana had a list. He irritated me as I had asked for precision and he offered a general question.

"Techniques for what?" I grumbled.

"Killing," he asked without missing a beat.

"Who says I was taught?"

Arden rolled his eyes. "I suppose the devil needs no instruction," he said dryly, his tone matching my own exasperation.

His words made me grunt. "Precisely."

The Daroga frowned and took a deep breath until he once again harnessed calm. "Where did you learn?"

"Why does she want to know?" I shot back.

He paused, his eyes creasing just slightly at the edges. "This is not an interrogation," he explained.

"Are you writing a biography?" I asked snidely.

"A biography on a man with no last name?" Arden snorted. "Who are you now? Jesus?"

The Daroga shot him a look. "Please, Arden," he said quietly.

"Hold your tongue a while," Kamil ordered. He stood behind me and knelt onto the bed, the weight of his body on the mattress startling me. Without warning, he dabbed at the wounds on my back with a cool, damp towel, the smell of hydrogen peroxide in the air.

I sat up straighter and inhaled sharply at the unexpected sensation. Taking a shuddering breath, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the brief absence of pain.

"You said you traveled with them on and off for six years?" the Daroga clarified.

I nodded again.

"They allowed you to come and go as you pleased?"

"No."

He waited a moment for me to elaborate, then clasped his hands and shifted his weight on his stool. Kamil continued to bathe the wounds while I allowed my head to dip forward. The languid sensation wouldn't last long, but I intended to savor each second.

"You killed the gypsy with a rope, yes?" the Daroga questioned.

I gave nothing more than a single nod, irritated by the break in the silence.

There had been no technique and no premeditation on my part. Either he would have killed me or I needed to kill him and I had found the rope first. My instinct and the desire to survive had led to his demise.

This, however, had not been part of his question. He simply wanted to know the extent of my training. I thought it best not to disappoint.

"But you didn't leave the fair?" he questioned.

"No, I did not."

"Why?"

"Why would I leave?"

He issued a questioning look. "You stayed for a reason…a purpose."

I remained stone-faced and allowed him to jump to his own conclusions. Whatever he devised in his mind—the head of a man who dealt with Persian criminals—surely had to be worthy of my apparent fabled existence.

Kamil blotted the peroxide from my flesh and stood. "He wouldn't answer a question when his life was at stake, Daroga, I doubt he will answer you now."

"He's told me enough," the Daroga responded, seeming satisfied.

As far as I was concerned, he'd conjured his own tale. I watched him from the corner of my eye and smirked, wondering what he had devised as my reasons.

Arden strode toward the door and motioned for his brother, who gathered up the used blankets and other various materials into a basket. He looked me over, his gaze filled with consternation.

"Whatever you're thinking, say it," I barked.

"Do not try standing on your own," he warned.

I grunted. "Very well, Monsieur."

"I'll help him down again," the Daroga said over his shoulder as though he assumed he could keep me from my foolishness.

Kamil hesitated, but nodded reluctantly and met his brother at the door. They whispered to one another, Arden gesturing violently, before leaving me with the Daroga.

For a long while he made no remarks, but he studied me with an unreadable expression. I stretched my legs out and grimaced, my body sore and muscles tight from a week of being bedridden.

Arden had seemed unusually eager to leave my apartments, which made me wonder if he wanted to avoid whatever the Sultana had in store for me.

"You have no training," the Daroga said to me in perfectly spoken Hungarian, his voice low and lips virtually unmoving.

My gaze flickered toward his, startled by his words. "I beg your pardon?"

"You were a man desperate for an escape, for a way out of their world," he said quickly. "You killed him before he killed you, and then you were caught. You would have been executed if not for the Sultana's interest, though I highly doubt you realized the gypsies intended to sell you well before that…incident."

As much as I attempted to hold my expression, I knew my eyes widened and breath caught.

"But of course, you knew the risk of killing him," he said smoothly. "You had traveled with them before. Perhaps that was when you learned such skill with a Punjab lasso?"

My eyes narrowed.

"No? Coincidence, perhaps, then? The tool you used does have a name, Monsieur. I see now you were unaware of this. Ironic, isn't it? This lasso of the Orient brought you to this palace."

"Am I supposed to be flattered, Daroga?" I questioned, attempting to steel my nerves. His knowledge alarmed me.

"Your time in the theater served you well," he said, though his words were not smug or taunting in nature. "However, I have dealt with more than my fair share of criminals and innocent men. You have underestimated the Persian police."

"I made no estimations," I replied, my voice as low as his.

"You expected a cage, perhaps even a script for your performance," the Daroga said. "You were not informed of your purpose."

"My purpose is to kill people," I replied.

He studied me a moment. "Not exactly."

His riddles no longer interested me. Frustrated, I turned away, unsure of what to make of him. He had either shared his information with the Sultana or would do so briefly.

"Do you wish to stand?" he asked, his voice louder than before and his native tongue. He offered his hand, which I ignored.

Without warning, he grabbed hold of my arm and proceeded to haul me to my feet. Stronger than he looked, he pulled me upright with ease and stood idle as I stumbled forward.

My heart raced, knees locking as I teetered. Balance seemed almost foreign, my legs threatening to turn to liquid. In desperation, I reached out and clutched the Daroga by the shoulder, using him as a crutch in order to keep from crumbling to my knees. He didn't recoil or move away, which surprised me.

"What do you know of my purpose?" I asked through my teeth as I leaned against him.

He widened his stance and stared toward the apartment door, his chin lowered and expression set. "I know enough to keep you alive."

"Why would you bother?" I demanded.

He took a step forward, forcing me to do the same. "There you go, Monsieur, another step forward," he said.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, my voice trembling with the effort of standing upright rather than quaking anger.

"A favor," he answered.

I pulled away from him and prayed my legs would stay beneath me. "I need no favors," I seethed.

"A favor to someone else." He looked me over as I stood with my legs trembling, mustering all of my strength to stand upright. The corners of his mouth lifted with a smile. "Excellent," he said with a nod of approval. "Standing alone once more."

I wondered if he knew the truth behind his words.


	16. A Man of Illusion

Persia16

More than anything, I feared the humiliation of falling to my knees before the Daroga.

Swallowing hard, I took meager, pathetic steps toward him and reached out, desperate to once again use him as crutch.

"Show your strength," he encouraged me as he took a small step back, mocking my hardship.

Teeth gritted, I forced myself forward and stumbled toward him, gripping his shoulder. He grabbed me around the waist, his fingers digging into unhealed wounds. With a groan I stood rigid, my nostrils flared and jaw clenched.

"I need to sit at once," I said, panting with each labored breath.

He looked me over. "You need to show unwavering resolve," he said, keeping his voice low. "Act the part, Monsieur."

"What part?" I growled as I slowly made my way toward the bed again. Blood stains created deep red splotches on the bed linens, a curved, erratic line where I had remained stationary.

"She doesn't forgive weakness," he said to me. By the look in his eyes and his tone, I assumed he spoke out of experience.

I couldn't have taken more than a dozen steps around the room, but the closer I inched toward the bed, the more I stretched the muscles in my lower back and legs. Momentum pushed me forward and by the final step, the discomfort eased.

Either by adrenaline or a fool's luck, I was pushed forward by my own two legs.

The apartment door opened and I heard the Daroga swear under his breath in French. I paused, my body stiff, and twisted just enough to see black fabric pass as graceful as a ghost into the room.

My breath hitched, my nerves faltering. She had come for me.

"What did Kamil tell you?" the Daroga snapped as he waved his arms around. "What did he instruct?"

I gazed briefly at him before turning toward the bed. Agony twisted already gnarled features and I clenched my teeth.

_Act the part. She does not forgive weakness._

"He does not issue orders to me," I returned with as much anger as I could muster.

"You are reckless," he admonished. "A dangerous fool of a man."He grabbed me roughly by the arm and shook me. "Sit at once."

"Daroga," the little Sultana said through her teeth. "What is this insolence?"

He continued to grip my arm, allowing me enough of an anchor to shift my weight without collapsing.

"He was instructed to stay in bed and rest," the Daroga said.

She stood in silence for a long moment. "Kamil issued these orders?"

The Daroga straightened. "In order to keep him alive and useful, yes. You read my report, I gather?"

She ignored his inquiry. "And yet he stands?" she asked. Despite facing away from her, I knew she drew closer, a venomous spider stalking her paralyzed prey.

"He does."

"Face me, my toy," she ordered.

I felt like an automaton with rusted hinges, wound up and forced into animation. Perspiration beaded my forehead, but I managed to turn and face her. I stared at her veil, held her unseen gaze.

"How long has he stood?" she said, nodding toward the Daroga.

"Ten minutes, perhaps fifteen," he said. "Much longer than he should for the extent of his injuries."

I doubted I had kept my legs beneath me for more than five, but for once I managed to hold my tongue.

"Injuries," she mused. "No, Daroga, this was issued punishment, well deserved, I might add."

"Yes, Sultana," he replied obediently. There was just enough of an edge to his voice where I could tell he despised agreeing with her.

"My toy," she cooed softly, her voice low yet still acidic. "Your wounds are still quite fresh. You have stained my sheets and my floors with beautiful, French blood."

My heart hammered with such force I thought it would come through my chest. For the first instance in many years, I feared physical pain. Already I imagined her raking long nails over the deep lashes across my back, of her stabbing or cutting tender, healing flesh. Constant, radiating pain day and night proved more than I could bear.

"You look unwell," she said as she turned her head to the side.

"Undoubtedly his stubborn nature," the Daroga commented.

She grunted. "This looks to be the effects of pain, Daroga. Could my precious toy be suffering?"

Before he could comment, the apartment door opened and Kamil strode in. He slowed his pace once he saw the three of us, his lips parting.

"What…" he started. "What did I say? You honestly disregarded my instructions?"

The Sultana lifted her hand and silenced him. "How long?" she questioned.

No one spoke. She whipped around and pointed at him.

"Here," she ordered. "Now."

He stood with his arms crossed and gaze trained on me for a moment longer before he did as he was told and walked smoothly toward her.

"Look at me," she seethed, but before he could respond or move, she hit him across the face with her gloved hand. "And answer when I speak to you."

"Of course, Sultana," he said automatically.

"How long?" she asked again. "How long did you say before he could stand on his own?"

"Another week," he answered blandly, his eyes narrowed as he looked toward me. "At least."

She remained silent as she stood before him, and as the seconds stretched into a full minute, I feared what pain would follow not only for myself, but Kamil if she considered his aid unnecessary.

"And I told you I would stand today," I said through my teeth. "You know nothing of me."

"You are mad," he shot back. "Mad and without limitations."

The Sultana walked past him. "Your skills as a physician are not what they once were, Kamil," she taunted. "Make certain my toy rests comfortably. I may have use for him yet."

She turned and glanced in my direction over her shoulder. "I trust you still possess your payment for the puzzle box," she said. "Your…what did you call your creation?"

"Snake Charmer," I answered.

_Not an ounce of mercy_. I wondered how Shazeen had suffered, if her punishment was worse than mine.

"Ah, yes, the Snake Charmer," the Sultana mused as she walked away. "I have another task for you, toy."

I made no reply. She shut the door hard and I stumbled backward, unable to hold myself upright a moment longer. My fall back into the bed was controlled only by the Daroga holding fast to my arm. I spread my knees and planted my palms on the mattress, able to breathe at last.

Once I was seated, both Kamil and the Daroga let out a collective sigh.

"A masterful performance," the Daroga said under his breath as he released my arm.

Kamil ran his hand over his hair. "For now." He looked at me. "How do you feel?"

"How would you think?" I snapped as I lowered my gaze.

He stomped toward me and paused once he towered over the bed where I sat still attempting to steady my trembling hands and thudding heart.

"For once you will answer my question without remark," he ordered. "Your life is precariously balanced and do not tell me you wish to die. I have already seen otherwise. Now, tell me how you feel after being on your feet for an extended amount of time."

They both stared at me, this one-time physician and the head of the Persian police.

"A favor," I said as I gazed toward the Daroga. "You said you acted because of a favor."

Kamil turned his attention toward the head of police and narrowed his gaze. The Daroga faltered, his expression turning from stone cold to surprise.

He cleared his throat and looked away from Kamil. "I did," he admitted at last.

"A favor to whom?" I asked.

Kamil shifted his weight and the Daroga wrung his hands. Their hesitation angered me.

"You expect my obedience," I said, carefully harnessing my tone. "Yet you will not tell me who wishes to keep me alive."

The two exchanged looks.

"You are incapable of obedience," Kamil remarked.

I grunted. "Look at me," I dared him. "Tell me the limitations of a man as hideous as myself."

"Obedience is not necessarily a limitation," Kamil replied.

I ground my teeth. Compliancy meant there was a victor. Obedience meant I showed defeat.

"Restraint," he said when I didn't bother to reply.

Instinctively I pulled back, expecting to be restrained. He didn't move and I stared up at him, seeing the sympathy in his gaze.

"You have shown restraint," he clarified.

Clearly he was mistaken. I had never shown restraint. "I beg your pardon?" I asked roughly.

He grunted, seemingly amused by my question. "You are a man of many travels and little experience," he replied.

"I have experienced much," I argued.

"Kamil," the Daroga warned. "He's in need of rest."

"You have no idea what I've experienced," I said, unwilling to be left alone while my anger escalated. I needed a release, a moment to ease my building frustration.

"I know what you have not experienced," he said, his voice and features relaxed.

In the back of my mind I knew I should have stayed quiet or changed the subject, but I was foolish and stubborn.

"Tell me," I challenged.

"You already possessed the key," he answered. "Either you were too ignorant to realize what you were given or you respectfully declined an offer made by a third party."

"The key—" I started, my teeth gnashing together.

"_Her_ key," he corrected, matching my heated tone. "To _your_ payment. The Sultana may as well have given a gelding a mare in season."

I realized what he meant and froze, appalled by the barbaric gift I had apparently been given. Drugged and disoriented, she had been cast inside with the beast, impaired prey for the monster to feast.

Kamil stepped closer and grabbed my arm, which he pulled straight out. Before I could register his actions, he inserted a needle into the crook of my elbow and emptied as much morphine into my veins as he could before I pulled away.

My flesh ripped open, a jagged line spanning several inches. I looked from the fresh wound to Kamil, who made no apologies.

"You will thank me," he said as he tossed the empty needle into a basket at his feet.

"No," I replied. "No I will not."

"I suppose not verbally, however, this was only an ounce of suffering you survived," he said carefully.

I considered his words and furrowed my brow. "Shazeen," I said, turning my attention toward the Daroga. "She is the reason behind your favor."

Kamil stared at the blood pooling along the inside of my arm and motioned to the Daroga, who handed him a towel without meeting my gaze.

"You are concerned for her?" Kamil asked as he knelt and pressed the rag to the crook of my arm.

I refused to answer. She was not my concern, she had never been my concern…and yet I regretted allowing a man she clearly feared, drag her away to her death.

When I had stepped forward, she had shaken her head, keeping me in place. She hadn't wanted me to save her. Perhaps she already knew I was incapable of aiding her.

"You are concerned for this woman?" Kamil asked again.

The morphine swiftly took effect, and as much as I wanted to remain silent, I could not contain the trepidation rising within me. I loathed the thought of her suffering because she was forced into my company. I hated to think she had been flogged as I had, that there were many ways men could make her suffer at their hands merely because she had been locked within my cage.

Perhaps the rest of Persia considered me less of a man for not taking what I had been given, though I felt like less of a monster for leaving her be—even if I hadn't initially realized what the key unlocked.

"Did you—" he started to ask me again.

"I heard you," I snapped. My thoughts felt as though they slowed, my body sinking involuntarily into a more languid state. "Were you there with her?" I asked.

He stared at me. "When?" he questioned.

The Daroga moved in closer, his gaze fixed on me.

"When they killed her," I asked. The words were difficult to speak, my throat tight as I voiced my concern.

"No," he answered, sounding remorseful. "She is not allowed to die yet."

Allowed. The way he spoke bothered me immensely. My head snapped up to meet his icy gaze. I loathed the rules governing Persia, the laws of life and death.

Still, a strange sense of relief washed over me in knowing she was still alive. I thought of the way she grinned when she opened the puzzle box, how willing she had been to assist in the creation. She had looked me in the eye without fear—and despite being told she took breakfast with a monster, she showed no hesitation.

Perhaps I was mistaken, but she almost seemed to enjoy my company. Quite frankly, I had enjoyed frivolous conversation. Her presence numbed me in a way much different from the morphine.

"Was she sent to another…criminal?" I questioned, dreading his answer.

He shrugged. "Soon," he answered, his voice gave away his demeanor. On the outside he seemed indifferent, but his tone belied a sense of dread. "But not quite yet."

For a long moment I stared at him, gauging his reaction. She had worth to him, though he remained silent and impossible to read. When he returned my hardened stare, I looked away from him, evaluating his words.

She would be passed to someone deemed more wicked than me, someone who would understand what he'd been given.

"What needs to be done?" I asked suddenly. "To keep her here?"

"Here?" Kamil asked. His eyes narrowed, the corners of his lips twitching into the slightest of smiles as though my words either pleased or amused him. "With you?"

From the corner of my eye I saw the Daroga and Kamil exchange looks. My eyes grew heavy, my body weighted down by the morphine coursing through my veins. Physical pain ebbed and I longed to close my eyes and rest.

"Yes," I said. My flesh seemed to tingle, the heat beneath my skin not as acute. The idea sounded perfect to me, flawless, even. She would return to my apartments and allow me distraction from my loneliness. In return she would be kept safe. This seemed an ideal bargain, a benefit for both parties.

"What would you do with her?" Kamil asked as though he didn't quite trust my intentions.

"Answer me," I ordered, though my voice sounded weak to my own ears and I knew I had lost the struggle with consciousness. "What needs to be done?"

"Great obedience," Kamil answered at last.

"Of course," I mumbled as I slumped onto the bed. The side of my head managed to hit the edge of the pillow. "I lack obedience."

My eyes closed. I saw Madeline on the stage ordering dancers about while her daughter clung to her leg. I saw my uncle tuning his violin and a young woman dressed in white, a swan princess, in the middle of a crowd. Briefly I saw an acrobat doing a handstand on the back of a white horse.

Kamil pulled my legs up onto the bed and arranged me onto my side. I struggled to avoid sleep, to stay awake and responsive a moment longer, but with each passing second I felt myself slip. In a state of delirium, with morphine coursing through my veins, my rage was quelled.

"She said he never laid a hand on her?" I heard Kamil ask.

"Never," the Daroga answered.

"Do you believe her?"

He didn't answer, at least not verbally.

"What was he before he came here?" Kamil asked.

"I don't believe he has changed much," the Daroga answered.

"What do you mean?"

He inhaled and I heard him shuffle around the bed. I was a monster; a devil and a ghost. I was hated and feared, I was misunderstood and underestimated. No one knew what I was capable of doing or how much I desired to prove them wrong.

"He's an illusion," the Daroga answered.

That seemed the most fitting description of all. I grunted and attempted to speak, but the words stumbled from my lips. With a soft groan, I relaxed and Morpheus took hold.

"Determined son of a bitch," Kamil said with a chuckle.


	17. The Pistol Game

Persia17

Beneath the veil of morphine, I slept soundly. Peaceful, dreamless sleep took hold, and the handful of times I opened my eyes, I found the apartment cool and dark. Each time I woke without fear or pain, the sensation foreign yet welcomed nonetheless.

Just as Shazeen had said, this sweet, sinful elixir carried away all pain. I had never experienced anything like it before and suspected Kamil had issued a lower dose than the first instance. The first time he had injected the morphine I slept seemingly without end, a seamless departure from my senses. This time, however, I found the effect dangerously enjoyable instead of paralyzing.

My fears of having no control had vanished, mostly because I no longer felt like myself—and I realized how desperately I wanted out of my own damaged flesh. My thoughts drifted, mind void of constant agony and fears of being seen or judged. In this blissful twilight I merely waited to wake, stretch, and fall asleep once more.

Naturally, however, the moment of refuge ended quite abruptly.

I woke to the sound of metallic clicking. The first one roused me, but not enough to open my eyes. The second click, accompanied by cold metal against my right jaw, forced me awake.

Even in the darkness, I saw her sitting beside me, a black shadow against the predawn light.

"Don't move," she said sharply.

I obeyed simply out of exhaustion and the effects of morphine. She pressed the cool metal into my flesh and rotated the pistol's barrel. The metallic click made me flinch once I realized what had made the sound.

"My precious toy, do you understand that if I shot you right now, most likely you would not die?" she questioned. I knew by her tone that her inquiry was purely rhetorical. "You would lose a part of your jaw, but I am confident you would survive, at least for a while."

Despite assuming her words were little more than mockery, I had always managed to survive. Perhaps I would live several days, perhaps months with a cavernous hole in my face, a wound so severe the injury would impede eating and speech.

"Yes, I see survival in your eyes, my toy. You're already considering the possibilities, the way you would manage to survive for me. Above all else, you have proven your desire to live and please me."

I stared silently into the distance and watched from the corner of my eye as she braced herself, preparing to pull the trigger a fourth time. My eyes blinked rapidly, the explosion I anticipated replaced by a soft, yet gut-wrenching click.

"I did very much enjoy your puzzle," she continued smoothly, her voice even and wickedly pleasant as though her actions had no bearing on life or death. She pulled the pistol away from my jaw, the barrel turned, and she proceeded to place the weapon against my earlobe.

"Of course this bullet would graze against your flesh and remove your ear completely. Can you see the results, my toy? A man so deeply scarred? No mask would hide such a deformity. Where would you hide? Who would take you in?"

I stared at a distant point, suppressing a shiver of dread. Already the world shunned me. I wasn't sure where I would hide or what I would do if she shot me but still allowed me to survive.

Madeline had been the only person who had taken me in and I feared after a long absence, especially with the acceptable side of my face missing, even she would turn me away.

There was only so much she could tolerate. Everyone had a limit.

The Sultana tested limitations, set her sights above what torment I had experienced. She tapped the gun against the side of my head, slow and rhythmic, as casual as tapping her finger against her thigh.

Another click of the trigger, another moment I evaded the bullet. Four attempts at further disfiguration, two attempts remaining. My breath stayed lodged in my throat, my eyes wide and undoubtedly filled with fear.

"What do you want?" I asked suddenly, desperately.

Again she prepared for her game and placed the muzzle against my lips. I turned my head to the side and she jabbed the pistol against my front teeth, the sickening taste of metal in my mouth.

"This is your fifth chance, toy. If you are meant to survive, then you will build me something of fantastic proportions, my toy," she said. "A gift so grand and wonderful, even my father will be pleased by the puzzle."

I had never stood so close to death. Beatings, though severe, had never threatened my mortality, at least not in this capacity. I had no doubt she wished to kill me and control of the situation belonged solely to her.

Again she pulled the trigger and my life was spared. I exhaled sharply, partially in relief and partially in dread as I knew the last barrel would indeed claim my life. I suspected she had calculated this new form of torture, tailored mental agony sewn right along with physical pain.

The Sultana sat back and clasped the pistol in both gloved hands.

"My toy," she admonished. "You do not wish to ask what I want you to design for your Sultana?"

"What do you wish me to design?" I asked blankly, my chest tight, my heart pounding. I swore all traces of morphine vanished from my bloodstream, replaced by adrenaline and pure, intense fear of being shot.

I wasn't sure what I feared more; a precise shot that would kill me instantly, dying a slow, agonizing death from infection, or being left with another deformity, a physical limitation I perhaps could not hide.

She placed the gun to the side of her head. I watched in fascination and horror, unable to speak or move.

"Heaven," she mused. "Ah, but heaven is not for me, my toy."

She laughed then, allowing me no time to speak or react as she pulled the gun from the side of her head.

"A beautiful maze of mirrors and metal. Would you complete this for me?"

She thrust the pistol out and placed the muzzle against my right eye. Despite knowing there was no escape, I twisted and snapped my eyes shut, inhaling sharply as I anticipated the gunshot and resulting effect.

My back arched and I inhaled sharply, terror thrumming through me.

She let out a loud dark, cruel sound. "Oh, my toy," she chuckled, her voice low and filled with her own sick joy. "You are a fearful, trembling little pet at my disposal. I do enjoy your undue arrogance, however, I very much appreciate fear as well. The emotion almost makes you seem…human."

She stood and stepped away from me. With immediate danger gone, pain flooded my body and I blinked rapidly, my torso throbbing, my thoughts scrambled. I visibly shook, overcome by the swell of danger.

"You will build for me," she assured me as she tapped the pistol against her open palm. "You will build me beautiful, strange contraptions."

"What will I receive in return?" I questioned before she exited the apartment.

"Your life," she replied.

"No," I said sharply. She'd already given my life. I doubted she would attempt to take it now, not after the amount of trouble she'd gone through to play her intricate game.

She turned her head to the side. "Oh, I do believe you value your life."

"No, Madame, you evidentially value my life as well with your pistol void of bullets," I snapped.

She grunted and held the pistol outstretched in both hands. She pointed the muzzle at my chest. "Would you like to play, my toy?"

"Kill me," I said firmly. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to sit upright and longed for the absence of pain. Laid out on my side I was helpless and weak, whereas sitting upright I felt sick to my stomach. Taking a breath, I swallowed hard and balled my hands into determined fists.

If she wished to bluff, then I would do the same.

Without a word she lowered the pistol and took aim at my groin. I stared her down, almost certain I understood her tactics. Several times now she had threatened to castrate me and I suspected her show was nothing more than an attempt to assert herself, a threat to wound a man in the worst way imaginable.

But she wouldn't.

"Do it," I demanded.

"As you wish," she said, her voice dripping with anticipation.

For half a moment I wondered if I had made the correct assumption, but I would be damned to beg for mercy.

She pulled the trigger to the last empty barrel and laughed to herself at her cruel, psychological game. "Oh, my little toy, I do value your life. For my amusement, yes, but nothing more."

"You do understand I wish for my own amusement," I said.

"A reward?" she asked, sounding surprised by my words.

"Payment," I corrected. Perspiration beaded on my forehead and I balled my trembling hands into fists. I wasn't sure if her game or my physical exertion and the morphine made my stomach turn.

"Never has a slave requested payment," she said, clearly amused by the idea.

"I will not be a slave," I said sharply.

"Toy," she warned.

"You will either grant me certain privileges or you should kill me now." I boldly stared at her, chin raised and jaw set. "Make your choice."

I knew I played a dangerous game, tempted her to load the pistol with a single bullet. I was almost certain she would not end me, not before seeing what I was capable of creating on her behalf. I only hoped I was correct, as moments earlier I had been convinced she wished to kill me.

Without answering me, she turned on her heel and exited, the apartment door slamming behind her with greater force than necessary.

The mirror set into the wall rattled and I glanced toward it. To my surprise, the glass swung open like a doorway, the hinges well oiled and silent.

For a long moment I stared at the black, cavernous space and blinked, certain I had gone mad. A cool stream of air wafted past me, the sensation making me shiver.

I held my breath and waited, expecting her guards would flood from the depths, wrench me from my bed, and send me to whatever torture she deemed necessary.

Moments passed, every noise outside the apartments, each voice in the distance causing me to flinch. I wondered how many she would send, if they would outnumber me at once or take their time, emerging one at a time.

The sun rose, pink light slowly illuminating the polished stone floors. I estimated a full hour had passed and still I sat alone, foolishly on edge. At last I relaxed and took a deep breath.

Shazeen's note made sense to me at last and I cursed myself for not understanding sooner. _Some ghosts see out of you_. Of course she meant the mirror. The Daroga had even covered the glass to keep someone from seeing him when he spoke to her alone.

Behind the mirror was a secret passage, a way into the apartment—and a way out at last.

All I needed was the strength to walk toward the hidden tunnel and see what lay beyond my reflection.

At once I moved my legs, took a breath, and gritted my teeth. I would stand…or I would die trying.


End file.
